So, with Christmas done and the crap from the January sales finally gone, the shops are in need of an array of cheap and tacky tat to adorn their shelves before the Easter eggs come in.
Oh, look, what's that on the horizon? It's Valenetines Day.
A pathetic excuse for the emotionally retarded to show their significant other how much they love them by the giving and receiving of a bear holding a plush heart.
Is it just my stomach that lurches at the thought of it?
Now some of you, reading this, may have jumped to the conclusion that I am a withering spinster, spurned by love and festering in my dusty old house, surrounded by too many cats. You may not believe my assurances that I am, in fact, happily married with two kids, but that fact is this:
Valentines Day is a Hallmark honey trap.
Hubby and I have shunned this offensive tradition for many years now, I do not need a tacky card or an overpriced bunch of forced roses to know that my husband gives a shit. Every day for the last twelve years he has told me that he loves me, genuinely, looking me in the eye without blinking.
Hallmark can't say it better than that.
Our corner shop has a seasonal stand near the till, a cornucopia of gifts for the desperate late night shopper. A scented candle, that smells of wax. A pink rubber duck that lights up. A small bear holding, yep you've guessed it, a plush heart. If you held his paw you could record a message for your loved one.
Someone had road tested the one on the shelf. If you pressed the heart it said 'You smell of shit.' It wasn't me, I swear.
