Yesterday morning an unexpected audible ping greeted my arrival into the living room. Conscious it was Valentines Day, I poetically romanticised this soundscape maybe Cupid’s bow string shooting an arrow in my direction – This episode playing out as a gesture of amour from a love struck beau.
It was not long, though, before yours truly dispelled this notion. This upon realisation the noise’s origin wasn’t from the god of love’s actions; moreover, the sound of my boxer short waistband snapping. Meaning 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; this achieved by utilising the adhesive qualities of a Blu Tac blob.
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.
Footnote – I understand the above revelation may raise a lot of readers questions. “Why the hell are you wearing the same undies today as you wore yesterday, Gary?!” being one of them!
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 is a wantonly reckless act.
I’d suggest convincing the local constabulary of your innocence after leaving a potential suitor prostrate with an arrow in their chest would subsequently require advocacy skills comparable to Horace Rumpole or Perry Mason.
Police and the Crown Prosecution Service no doubt highly cynical of any 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 should not to be confused with Stan Laurel’s side kick who’s Oliver Hardy.
Anyhow, after the Blu Tac fix to my undies, I reclined into living room armchair. Here I waited patiently for the postman to see whether the god of love had despatched a metaphorical arrow in my direction.
However, none were forthcoming; yesterday’s post consisting merely of an energy bill and takeaway flyer. Unsurprisingly, neither the correspondence from NPower or Chaz’s kebab shop requested GJ Strachan became their valentine.
Incidentally, I’m only kidding about my lack of serendipity at attracting a valentine. I did in fact receive a lovely card from my Ossett beau, Sarah; along with a bunch of thoughtful gifts for which I am very appreciative.
Of these whizzbang pressies, I would have to say the book ‘25 Things You Didn’t Know About Horse Chestnut Trees‘ ranks among my favourites.
Inside my valentine’s card, the West Yorkshire lass wrote the following heartwarming rhyme:=
‘Roses are red; Aubergines are black; Now get out my house; And give my keys back’
Harsh but, it has to be said, a far better rhyme than my reciprocal poem of:-
‘Roses are red; You are quite canny; I’ll give you £5; If you show me your face’
I was never much good at rhyming!
Although Sarah and me exchanged cards and presents, it is hard not to feel some level of contempt at the gratuitous commercialism surrounding Valentine’s Day. In particular the opportunist skullduggery employed by retailers who shamelessly hike up greetings card, chocolate and flowers prices for the big day.
While queueing to purchase Sarah’s card on Monday, I spoke a likeminded cynic who claimed we were being scammed by ‘The great Valentines Day merchandising rip off.”
This fella not just scathing about the commercial furore annually surrounding events on 14th February. He also launched a diatribe about numerous pointless celebratory occasions which greetings card companies now feel moved to 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 lining the pockets of the greeting cards companies for contrived and meaningless days of celebration… Bearing in mind his card choice, such irony was not lost on me.
This man adding further his dislike of 14th February celebrations were exacerbated during 2019’s Valentine’s Day. An occasion when his then girlfriend gifted him an aerial photograph of his dog Bobby, along with chlamydia.
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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