Bye bye, Lark Lane. 

Half of us in the house have decided to go our separate ways so from July I will no longer be Rapunzel, which is probably a good thing as I’ve never lived in a place that is so effing uncomfortably freezing.

The other night I thought about sleeping in gloves.  They would have added to my socks, slippers, leggings, flannel pj bottoms, thick t-shirt and a thick, fleece/furry, padded tartan hoody ensemble.  Sexy.  My planned evening of a DVD in bed did not go as planned as this event should only ever take place in cosy atmospheres.  DVD off, huddle under quilt and blanket and blanket and wake up in the same foetal position I’d fallen asleep in, resulting in shoulder pain.  Brillo.

Now though, I’m back in Birmingham for a week or so, in a house without as many holes and with double glazing.  I’m sitting on my bed with my cat who is stretched out like a log, and it’s nice to know that outside is pretty freezing.

I’m gonna be pathetic this weekend and keep it local.  Is it bad that the cold makes me unwilling to ‘trek’ into the city centre?  Probably.  Ach, well!  Also, I don’t intend to prove to Hallmark that I’m not arsed about Valentine’s Day by going all out in my going out.  It gets on my nerves.  It’s as false as a false thing.  Someone give me flowers on July 17th just because, not because society says so (or a nagging other half).

People expect surprises for Valentine’s.  Is a surprise a surprise if it’s expected?  All I’d want for Valentine’s is a massive snog.  That would honestly, honestly do.  I’m a romantic and there’s little to no romance in commercialism.

What I’m about to say is aimed mainly at women:

The male of the species generally don’t give a nob about Valentine’s Day.  Having worked in retail (translate as ‘in shops’) over a number of years, I found Valentine’s Day to be one of the most amusing days to watch customers: the panic buying; the grabbing of whichever card is nearest without even giving it a proper looking over, just so long as they’ve got one; the clueless and/or half-baked choosing of gifts.  Not very romantic or thoughtful.  Back off, stop nagging and treat each other on a day that’s less forced.

What I’m about to say is aimed mainly at men:

MAN UP!

Saying this, if someone were to treat me for Valentine’s, I’m not going to say that I wouldn’t love it a little bit (unless it’s that giant cuddly rose I saw in Clintons.  That can’t even be bought with irony.)

Saying that, I’ve found me a Valentine.  He’s so perfect and the reasons I chose him are amazingly justified.  I’m going to spend all day in bed with him on Sunday, have breakfast in bed and read the Sunday papers.  He does so much for me and he keeps me warm at night.  I lie naked with him and I know exactly how to turn him on.

I Love You, Electric Blanket.