Now that it’s no longer Valentine’s Day and that sappy banner has been taken down, I’m free to tell you about our night (HA LOOPHOLE GREG HA).
But before I do, I should say that my last three valentine’s days were spent
2002: with a tumultuous (read: crazy) ex boyfriend
2003: watching a guy (that had 24 hours prior told me how VERY much he liked me) hook right the fuck up with his ex-girlfriend who’d dumped him a month before
2004: having a lovely dinner with Biscuit but returning home to sit on the couch, nurse my bloody feet (stilettos + february = BAD), eat popcorn and watch the Princess Diaries on TV because all of my nearest and dearest were getting wooed and laid
so it’s not entirely surprising that I’m dubious of the value of such a holiday that encourages people to wear stilettos in winter or go out with exactly the wrong guy or hang out with exes and put yourself in the risk field for Pity Sex.
That said, this year was rather different, and even though that takes away my oh-so-trendy cynical edge for complaining, I am clinging to the fact that Stuart and I did very little differently from any other romantic night in, and we didn’t buy each other expensive gifts or enormous flowers. We cooked four different amuse-bouche type dishes for each other, spending two happy and messy hours in the kitchen, trading bits of each other’s meals and making up new delicious ways to eat bread and olive oil.
Then we settled onto the living room floor to drink champagne and eat our treats, and we spent several happy hours lounging around, listening to Ella and talking about love.
I think my favourite moment of the night, though, was when Stuart came out of the bedroom looking very dapper in a button-down, tie, and slacks, and then immediately tied on the “I Don’t Do Dishes!” apron and got cooking. That was pretty much the hottest moment of 2005 so far.