Last Valentine’s was my most romantic yet. It was my second in a row single and my chef friend had used her leftover photo shoot ingredients to lovingly prepare four friends an Italian three-course feast. She had scrawled a love note in lipstick on the dining room mirror and even cut out paper hearts as table settings with our initials on: LT 4 HS etc. The only male present was an anxious Cavapoo who barked over our conversation for an hour straight. Boys, eh?
Though this year I’d really like to avoid any of the commercial fanfare altogether. The adverts for romantic getaways, dine in for two placards and heart-shaped everything. It all just gives me the ick. Galentine’s is just as bad: celebrated on the 13th, it allows coupled-up ‘gals’ to time split their romantic energy between both dates. But I suspect it’s really so that white wine-drunk gangs aren’t screeching over the hordes of couples munching their way through a double-priced menu, trying to bestow just the right number of platitudes on their date.
