Upon entering the living room in Chez Strachan on the morning of 14th February, I was greeted by an unexpected audible ping. With it being Valentines Day, the poet within me romanticised this aural distraction may’ve emanating from Cupid’s bow string. Its source the forceful triggering an arrow in my direction; a gesture of amour from a love struck valentine.

This notion soon dispelled, though, upon realising the noise’s origin wasn’t an action from the god of love. Instead, the aural intruder a sound of the elastic on my boxers snapping; an event necessitating a hasty retreat upstairs to fix the stricken waistband.

In the absence of a safety pin, yours truly blagged a temporary fix to my shreddies, utilising the adhesive qualities of Blu Tac. To clarify, I’m not advocating this remedy as a long term fix for hamstrung clothing. However, perhaps surprisingly, this underwear repair has remained robust since administering it around 24 hours ago..

Incidentally, suggesting above I hoped an arrow was heading my way, I obviously meant it metaphorically. To my knowledge Cupid doesn’t fire real arrows…… It goes without saying, shooting real arrows at loved ones (or indeed anyones) hearts would be a wantonly reckless act.

I’d wager, convincing the local constabulary you’re not guilty of an incident resulting in your suitor being laid prostrate with an arrow in their chest’d be a hard sell. The police and Crown Prosecution Service’d be highly cynical of a witness statement suggesting a paramour’s injuries were sustained by a mythical small winged individual firing a real arrow, as opposed to a metaphorical projectile.

Explaining Cupid’s motive was highlighting your love for the victiml introducing an even more incredulous spin to the tale. So kids, to summarise, bow and arrow horseplay is extremely foolhardy…… Not to be confused with Stan Laurel’s side kick who’s Oliver Hardy.

Anyhow, after the Blu Tac fix to my undies, on Valentine’s Day morning I perched on a living room armchair waiting for the postman to confirm the god of love’d despatched that metaphorical arrow in my direction.

Alas, none were forthcoming; an energy bill and takeaway flyer the only correspondence delivered by our postman Jack. Unsurprisingly, neither NPower or Chaz’s kebab shop correspondence containing requests for me to become their valentine.

To be honest, though, even when still residng at my marital home, I’ve not gone overboard with celebrations on the 14th February for many years. This a consequence of deepening relationship toxicity, along with not being aboard a boat on that particular date.

Middle-aged cynicism’s resulted in my subscription to sentiments of those who contemptuously dismiss Valentine’s Day for its gratuitous commercialism. These notions aimed in particular at businesses whose opportunist skullduggery result in hiked up prices for greetings cards and flowers during the big day’s build up.

While buying a card in a supermarket last Thursday, I spoke to one of these fellow cynics; a guy openly dismissive towards what he claimed was ‘The great Valentines Day merchandising ‘rip off’.”

While in the process of choosing a ‘Happy Baby Sitters Day’ card, he spoke of his vehement opposition to unnecessarily lining the pockets of the greeting cards companies. Adding only a fool would purchase their products on contrived and meaningless days of celebration.

babysitters day

As much as I dislike using the word prematurely around Valentine’s Day, I’m going to have to draw a line under this blog prematurely…… I think my boxer short Blu Tac has finally just given up the ghost!!

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