Sunday, 17 February 2008
Every year the 14th of February comes around and the air is filled with romance and the sound of cash registers going into overdrive. Shop windows are awash with red, radio DJs dedicate back-to-back Westlife for Tracy in Dagenham, and rom coms litter the TV schedules like rose petals across a suburban bedroom floor.
Office girls up and down the country survey reception desks like hawks, hoping that the next bouquet to be delivered will be for them. Packed tube trains are filled with self-conscious Romeos trying to protect the fragile heads of the floral gifts that they have just remembered to pick up for their awaiting Juliets.
In neighbourhood restaurants, whispering couples dine cheek by jowl on fixed price menus as waiters take bets on which table will host the first argument of the night. Meanwhile in the kitchen, pastry chefs hide engagement rings at the bottom of the tiramisu as restaurant owners brush up on the heimlich manoeuvre and have 999 on speed dial. It's a day of pressure, and for many, bitter disappointment.
Which is why love isn't paying the 1000% price increase for a dozen red roses on Valentine's Day. Love is sticking your fingers in your ears and shouting "la la la la la la!" when Angels is played for the millionth time on Heart FM. Love is quickly turning the page of the Metro when you get to the double page spread on buying edible underwear for that special someone. Love is romance on any other day but the 14th of February. Love is pate sucree, creme patissiere, and a little raspberry tartlet on the 16th.
Posted by Pete at 09:19