Bad Romance

The notion of Valentine’s Day rouses a whole host of different emotions for different people. Some find it the most perfect day filled with unconditional love from their betrothed, complete with flowers and chocolates and kisses on the side. However, others find it an unbearably soppy holiday invented by greeting card companies to rake in a small fortune every February.

Whatever anybody thinks, Valentine’s Day seeps into our lives whether we like it or not, and it has the potential to be the best or the worst day of the year.

For some relationships, February 14 provides a huge injection of unnecessary pressure which can break those already hanging by a thread. And this is precisely what happened to me two years ago in the traditionally cold-hearted city that is London.

Now I’m not saying that Valentine’s Day was the breaking point for my relationship in isolation – there were many things leading up to this point. But it has notably stuck in my mind as the worst Valentine’s Day I have ever experienced, not only in London but ever. And believe me, I’ve had some pretty bad ones.

I spent the weeks leading up to the February 14, 2009, gathering small, sentimental gifts which I individually and lovingly wrapped. I came across a vintage Valentine’s Card from the 1950s in which I wrote a heartfelt verse proclaiming my love and slightly exaggerated intentions to my other half. I also collected rose petals which I intended to scatter around the room in some kind of overtly romanticised film-like idea.

This probably makes me sound like an amazingly doting – if not a little obsessed – girlfriend but I defy anyone to tell me that when in a relationship they do not in some small part look forward to the accepted lovey-doveyness St Valentine brings.

The morning of the big day arrives and I excitedly leap out of bed to present my array of gifts to the bed-haired boy who was beginning to look rather flushed. Alas after the initial presentation of my gifts was over, I was left empty handed. No card, no presents, no flowers, no chocolates, nothing. I managed a weak smile and decided perhaps I was being too materialistic, after all Valentine’s day is not about the presents. Perhaps my then-boyfriend had planned something romantic for the day ahead…

Unfortunately, he had not. We took the tube to St James’ park for a ‘romantic’ stroll; a tube journey which I reluctantly shelled out for.

After an awkward stroll hand-in-hand, me jealously eyeing girls with bunches of roses, we returned to my flat for a dinner that my fella had apparently planned. A meal of  all my favourite foods. But on our return it appeared that he may have forgotten not one or two of the ingredients, but all of them. My flatmates felt so sorry for me that they ended up cooking instead.

Shoving the carefully arranged, now stupid looking rose petals off the bed, we slept back-to-back that night. And shortly after this event, we went our separate ways.

This Valentine’s Day I have slightly lowered my expectations in the hope that my new man may exceed them. Perhaps I’m hanging my hopes on a holiday that has had its day. And perhaps I’m an old romantic at heart. But, from now until Monday I will have my fingers and toes firmly crossed.

Image by MrB-MMX courtesy of Flickr