Last night Will and I went on a Valentine’s date for the first time ever. We’ve been a couple for a decade and as we’ve experienced each 14th of February together Will has gotten progressively softer. We began in year 1 with petrol station flowers, moved on to romantic nights in by year 3, then by year 6 handmade cards appeared. This year, year 10, I got proper Borough Market florist flowers, a handmade card AND a date night. This was the pinnacle of our dating life, I’m sure.
I understand his opinion that it is a bit pointless to pay twice as much for a meal that would be no different on any other day of the week. And I agree that sitting in a room of other couples who are desperately trying to be romantic is a little bit cringeworthy. But I’ve always thought that there is something a tiny bit magical about Valentine’s night and actually, we had a lovely time.
There were no forced gooey eyes at our local curry house, a few heart garlands but the candlelit mood was cut through by a lady dining in a black hoodie proclaiming ‘LMAO’ in big white letters. How apt.
We ate poppadoms, lamb kebab, goan fish curry, garlic naan. Three large glasses of wine and a couple of large Cobra beers. I washed my hair, put make-up on and dressed nicely for my husband. We held hands and talked and talked and laughed and ate and remembered what it is like to be a twosome.
And then we came home to a toddler who wanted to climb in mummy’s bed for cuddles and a baby who wanted some milk and remembered how awesome our foursome is. Nothing beats our awesome foursome.
Even the 4am wakeup call this morning (oh hi man-flu, I see you’re back with a raging sore throat), the old married couple bickering over porridge at breakfast or the morning spent potty training couldn’t put a dampner on our 14th February. I love you, Harold Valentines.
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