the day between the 13th and the 15th

Yet again, and as if like clockwork, Valentine’s Day was once again upon us this week. I’m not the most romantic of men at the best of times, but I knew that I couldn’t let the day go by without at least doing something because, despite all her protestations, I’m quite sure the GW wouldn’t let me hear the end of it. This year, the big day fell awkwardly on a Monday, which in turn meant I had to come up with another weekend of romantic stuff and whatnot.

It all started on Friday night, when I arranged to pick her up from work. I’d neglected to tell her where we were going to maintain the element of surprise, but I’d decided to take her to attach a padlock to Tower Bridge (if you remember my post about our trip to Paris, we’d forgotten to take a lock to the Pont des Arts; feel free to go back and check, I’ll just wait here)… Anyways, I collected her from the office and off we went to Tower Bridge. After walking the length of the bridge, we couldn’t actually find any other locks, so either Wikipedia had lied to us, or there’s a cold-hearted jobsworth removing them all at every opportunity. We found a secluded rail and attached our padlock before casting the key into Old Father Thames, which was quickly followed by a ring an ex-girlfriend had bought me years ago that the GW had kindly replaced (marking her territory, as it were). After polluting the river a little more, we hit a nearby bar for drinks before heading to Soho for dinner.

It was in Bistro 1 on Soho’s Beak Street that we witnessed what could have been some of the worst date etiquette ever. It was plain to see that the couple sitting at the adjacent table were on a date, and it was obviously only their first or second; we could tell as they spent much of their time nervously talking too loud and too fast at each other. Things seemed to be going relatively well until a female friend of the guy turned up. A normal person would think “Oh, there’s my friend. I’ll say hello to them, introduce them to my lovely date, exchange pleasantries, then get back to my lovely date”. Not this guy. Ten minutes he spent talking to this other woman; his date even started playing with her ‘phone waiting for him. I don’t think they’ll be seeing each other again.

Saturday and Sunday weren’t particularly romantic, as we spent much of it driving around, running errands and negotiating bits of furniture in and out of a Fiat Cinquecento before I cooked a delicious but resoundingly unstable goats’ cheese and tomato lasagne.

Monday came. Valentine’s Day itself. I’d sold the GW a dummy by asking when her postman usually arrived, planting the seed that I’d sent her card via Royal Mail, ‘cause everyone likes getting post, don’t they? In actual fact, I’d been in cahoots with her best friend and colleague as I had plans afoot. I’d found out what time she has her lunch, so I’d planned to make an appearance and surprise her. Normally, I can get from Hammersmith to Oval in about half an hour, so at 2 o’clock I made my move. Somehow, through what I can only assume was an inordinate amount of faffing, I didn’t arrive at hers until ten to 3. I called her and asked her to look out of her first-floor window, where I stood with a card and a bunch of yellow roses (I know girls like any flowers, they’re daft like that, but I thought it best to ask the GW what her favourites were ahead of time). She loved them, and I claimed my title as the Bestest Boyfriend Ever. Maybe I should get a trophy made.

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