I love Valentine’s Day, cheese and all – come on, I know I’m not alone

http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2015/feb/09/valentines-day

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The Valentine’s Day scrooges are out in force. It’s a cynical, consumerist sham of a day invented by greetings card companies to make the rest of us feel inadequate, they say, presumably while polishing their limited edition Morrissey LPs. To which I always say (mentally, because I don’t want them to think that I am as lamely sentimental as I actually am): what kind of sad little person is unable to find at least a modicum of enjoyment in an individually wrapped heart-shaped truffle or a wittily worded declaration of love?

In this world of standardised hipsterdom in which everyone of a certain age and profession dresses the same, Instagrams the same and sneers with the same tone of detached irony that anyone who likes the same thing as everyone else is “basic”, it’s pretty uncool to admit that you like something as mainstream as Valentine’s Day. Anti-Valentine’s Day Valentine’s Day merchandise has even become fashionable. So buying a card from Paperchase that says “Hello, gorgeous. Fancy a shag?” (another recently on sale, now discontinued – I wonder why – had: “I love you like a slapper loves cock”), is supposed to be akin to a counter-cultural act. Nope.

I may draw the line at cuddly toys, but I'm not one to ever turn down a three-course meal

The thing is, I know I’m not alone in secretly liking the cheese of it all. Give me hearts and flowers and Sinatra and static-inducing pants any day. I may draw the line at cuddly toys, having finally despatched a decade’s worth to the local charity shop, but I’m not one to ever turn down a three-course meal. Valentine’s Day doesn’t have to be a big deal (nor, incidentally, does it have to preclude you showing your love every other day of the year), but it can be deliciously saccharine. It is the cheesecake of holidays.

Hens and hags

The wedding of an old friend approaches and the traditional pre-lash arrangements are finalised. Being a female friend of the groom’s means an invitation to the stag do is out of the question, but I was pleased to discover that he will be hosting a “hag do” for the women in his life. I have a horror of ever being a bridesmaid, and have said as much to all my female friends, many of whom don’t even want bridesmaids. (It’s good to get these things out in the open before the hens’ afternoon teas and enforced juice fasts begin.)

It’s a relief to discover that more and more people are turning away from tradition in order to plan the weddings they feel best reflect them as a couple. A “best woman” is quite enough pageantry, as far as I’m concerned.

Being photo-sensitive

As far as I can tell, human beings can be conveniently divided into two groups: those who love being photographed and those who loathe and dread it with a fierce passion. My mother and I had our photographs taken professionally last week, and we clearly fall into the latter category. “I hate my profile,” I told the photographer. “So do I,” said my mum (so that’s where I got it).

Clearly neither of us are going to be exhibiting the kind of brazen self-confidence that was on show on the Bafta red carpet any time soon. Being photographed is, of course, a torture that is unavoidable, not only during weddings but every day (thanks, social media). It’s not just about whether or not you’re photogenic. It’s about whether or not your (inwardly conceived) idea of your exterior self matches up to the reality, and vice versa. If there’s a gulf between the two perceptions, seeing yourself as others see you will, like hearing your own voice or seeing the back of your own head, always be a bit of a shock. “So that is me?” you think. “Oh, Christ.”