Happy Valentine

February 14, 2011

Girls apparently like flowers.  Red ones, to be exact.  Every third woman was clutching flowers on the tube this evening. Great big bouquets that made me sneeze.

It was bad enough at work. Kelly’s boyfriend sent her 101 red roses. Productivity ground to a halt for at least thirty minutes as everyone (well, mostly women) gathered around her desk and lamented their boyfriend’s lack of romance/love/lust/commitment/devotion. I hung around Kelly’s desk too, not because I was particularly interested in the roses (or in the accompanying message, which, having said that, had the women shrieking with delight – something to do with a dirty weekend, I later discovered) but because it was a good way of avoiding work.  Even the boss took her scary self out of the office and made “aaaah” sounds, the sort people make when they see babies or little fluffy kittens.

I don’t mean to be rude, but really, it was nauseating.

Slinky Susie (the Boss’s PA) even dumped her boyfriend as a result.  The conversation (yes, of course I listened in), went a little like this:

Susie:  And not even a card!

Boyfriend: Inaudible.

Susie: Or a text!

Boyfriend: Inaudible

Susie:  Or even an acknowledgement.

Boyfriend: Inaudible

Susie:  I never want to see you again.

Boyfriend: Inaudible.

Susie (now off phone, in floods of tears): I hate him.

Women really can get very emotional about Valentine’s Day.

You can tell who had a hot date this evening and who didn’t.  Half the team got into the lift with me at 5 pm. (No hot date for me, of course, it’s simply the time I normally leave). The rest (Slinky Susie included), hung around and surfed the net for an hour or two before going home.

The journey home was  worse than usual. Bodies crammed together, loved up couples snogging in public and roses taking up what little oxygen circulated in the  carriage.

I hate Valentine’s Day.


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