She Who Must Be Spoiled On Far Too Many Occasions Than Can Be Safely Counted On The Fingers Of An Arabian Shoplifter and I decided years ago that going out for a romantic meal on Valentine's day was a bit like sticking your personal parts in a hornets nest, then acting all surprised when you get stung. All the restaurants are crammed solid, all the staff are stressed, and all the food is suspect. Not to mention that you get to spend your evening rubbing shoulders - literally - with the other poor sods who've been shoehorned into for their special meal like old fashioned veal calves... And this would be romantic how?
So instead we stayed home last night with a big box of king crab (cue Homer Simpson style drooling noises) and a bottle of bubbly. Or two. And then some chocolates in the shape of racing cars.
The only thing that cast a pall on the evening was She Who Must Need Her Head Examined's less than enthusiastic response to the lovely valentine's card I made, specially for her.
After a period of looking at it with forehead creased and one eyebrow doing the 'up and down' thing, she said, "It's very ... colourful?"
When did women stop finding gestures of affection like this appealing? Surely nothing says 'Happy Valentine's Day' better than someone who's come back from the dead with a worm in his head? See - it even rhymes. No, I think she was just overwhelmed by how lovely it was. That's it. Yes. Overwhelmed by the loveliness.
I'm going to call Hallmark. If they hurry there'll be a range of Zombie-themed greeting cards in the shops in time for Mother's Day! And I'll be a Millionaire!
And no, you can't ask how the writing is going.
Labels: stuff, wasting time