The shops around here are packed with Valentine’s cards – massive piles of them, some taller than my head. This is wonderful, as there’s, obviously, never too much love in the world, but the one thing I don’t understand is this: why are they being sold in bulk?
Are they for slutty people?
Are we meant to buy a pack now to keep us going for the next 25 years, and hope our significant other isn’t very observant?
Is it in case I keep buggering up the signature?
I’m told it’s largely for schoolkids, who like to give cards to their whole class, which is a new one on me. Where I’m from, you pick a Valentine, based on such criteria as “nice eyes” and “unusually patient” and run with it, and eyebrows are raised meaningfully should you be purchasing two cards. Clinton’s Cards have a policy whereby three or more Valentine cards hit the counter at once and it triggers the alarm button.
There is a certain sweetness in the befuddlement of it all, but don’t get me started on the Twilight-themed packs I saw. The horror.
On an even sweeter note, this picture is doing the rounds on Facebook and Twitter, and is especially heartstring-pulling if the associated story – that he told the photographer his wife died of cancer three years ago but he still buys her a card and roses to remind her she’s his only one – is true. Now there’s, for me, the true meaning of Valentine.
Two years ago yesterday, I got engaged to Hubby. At a keyboard, 5000 miles apart, after a frank and practical discussion of whether it was the best option for our (then) long-distance relationship. The proper proposal came a couple of months later, when he was in England, but it will still be a very difficult Valentine to top.