Stupid Cupid

Yesterday morning I was greeted by an unexpected audible ping upon wearily entering Chez Strachan’s living room. With it being Valentines Day, the poet within me romanticised this soundscape may’ve emanating from Cupid’s bow string. Its source the forceful triggering of an arrow in my direction – This episode a gesture of amour from a love struck valentine.

However, this notion was soon dispelled when quickly realising the noise’s origin wasn’t an action from the god of love. Moreover, the aural intruder was in fact a sound of my boxer short waistband snapping – An event necessitating a hasty retreat back upstairs to repair the stricken elastic waistband.

In the absence of a safety pin, yours truly blagged a temporary fix to my shreddies, utilising the adhesive qualities bequeathed by a large blob of Blu Tac. To clarify, I’m not advocating this remedy as a long term repair for hamstrung elasticated clothing. However, in my defence, this makeshift underwear repair has remained robustly in place since being administering around 24 hours ago..

Incidentally, suggesting 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 after partaking in an act leaving your suitor lain prostrate with an arrow in their chest would require advocacy skills comparable to Horace Rumpole, or the most convincing of snake oil salesmen.

The police and Crown Prosecution Service would surely 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 its usual metaphorical projectile.

Always remember kids, bow and arrow horseplay is extremely foolhardy…… Which’s not to be confused with Stan Laurel’s side kick who’s Oliver Hardy.

Anyhow, after the Blu Tac fix to my undies, I perched on a living room armchair waiting for the postman to confirm whether the god of love had despatched that aforementioned metaphorical arrow in my direction.

However, no post, other than an energy bill and takeaway flyer, were delivered by our postman Jack. Unsurprisingly, neither NPower or Chaz’s kebab shop correspondence contained a request to become their valentine.

Not to worry, though, middle-aged cynicism’s resulted in me subscribing to sentiments held by those who contemptuously dismiss Valentine’s Day for its gratuitous commercialism. These notions aimed in particular at businesses whose opportunist skullduggery results in hiked up prices for greetings cards and flowers during the big day’s build up.

While queueing to purchase a card 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.” This fella particularly scathing about the plethora of pointless celebratory occasions for which greetings card companies now produce merchandise.

While standing in front of me awaiting to purchase a ‘Happy Baby Sitters Day’ card, this guy spoke of his vehement opposition to unnecessarily lining the pockets of the greeting cards companies. Adding only a fool would purchase their products for such contrived and meaningless days of celebration.

This man’s chagrin towards celebrations augmented further through the trauma experience during 2019’s Valentine’s Day when his then girlfriend gifted him an out of focus aerial photograph of his dog Bobby, along with chlamydia.

babysitters day

Anyhow, 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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