Valentine’s Day - that sense of expectation makes me detest it

THERE’S only one day I hate more than St Patrick’s Day and that’s Valentine’s Day. I hate St Patrick’s Day because of all the fake Plastic Paddy bull**** that everyone goes on with – ‘Yaaaaaaay isn’t it great to be Irish, sure we’re mighty craic altogether. No other nation in the world knows how to party like we do’.

Then we spend the other 364 days of the year giving out about the state of the country – the shysters we have for leaders, the cost of a pint, the state of our roads, the disgrace that is our health service, the weather. Oh Jaysus we can’t forget the weather!

So I’m not one of those shamrock wearing patriots, clad head to toe in green who goes out brandishing a tricolour a the local parade and then heads to the pub afterwards to skull pints of Guinness. I usually spend it at home, keeping as far away from the madding crowds as I possibly can.

Valentine’s Day is another matter altogether and my reasons for hating it are totally self absorbed. I could pretend that I hate all the commercialism, the inflated price of sickly sweet cards and anaemic looking red roses.

But that’s not the truth. Because lets face it, I’m not going to be buying roses for myself so I don’t really care about the price.

Having said that no one else is going to be buying them for me either! Himself has many fine qualities (he has nice eyes and he can be very funny. Oh and he makes deadly chips!) but being romantic isn’t one of them.

I once forced him to write me a love letter, before we got married. Under serious duress he wrote three pages on Basildon Bond which read like a 24 hour account of what he’d done for the day, signed off with ‘ lots of love.’

And therein lies the problem. It’s the sense of expectation that surrounds Valentines Day that makes me detest it.

I remember as a teenager, praying to God every February 14 that someone would send me a card. An ordinary one would be fine but I really longed for one of those big padded yokes so I could bring it into school and show it off.

It never happened. The only card I recall getting was when I was 14. I remember being delirious with excitement as I ripped it open and read the one line message. ‘I think you’re great!’ Those four words held so much potential, expectation and desire. I was on a high for days.

I found out years later my parents sent it to me because they felt sorry for me. It was like Santa Claus all over again. Devastation is not the word!

See this is why I hate Valentine’s Day – I’m right back in 1984, with a bad perm, leg warmers and frosted pink lipstick, waiting for the postman to deliver a Valentines card that never arrives.

I’m going to break into ‘I’m all outta Love’ any minute!

THIS IS WHY I HATE VALENTINES DAY – I’M RIGHT BACK IN 1984, WAITING FOR THE POSTMAN TO DELIVER A CARD THAT NEVER ARRIVES