Footloose and fancy free

I CAN’T decide whether it is more stressful to be single on Valentine’s Day, or not — having spent my first ever with a boyfriend.
On the first anniversary of this column’s conception, I decided to take a look back to where it all spawned from — February 14, 2004.
I spent that day miserable, desperate and half-drunk, wishing there was someone out there (excluding my best friend or my mother) who loved me enough to take time to send me a little token of their appreciation.
This year, I was faced with a completely different scenario — What the hell was I meant to get for my beau, the inexperienced Valentine’s virgin I was? Ever since I was dumped on February 13 one year I’ve left things to the last minute.
It would have been easier to know what I was to be getting in return — not that I was expecting anything (!)
Do I get him aftershave (= he smells)? A DVD, CD or game (he’s already got it or he doesn’t like it)? A little teddy clutching a heart (no comment)? Lovely candles? (Too girly) ARRGGHH!
And then there’s the card: After only two months into the replay of our relationship can I use the word boyfriend? All my love? Together forever? I love you? And many more verses which I would never use and which should never have been printed in the first place. I’d love to hear from anyone who bought one which said: “I love you more than I love the dog”.
I was a very lucky girl — as if St V. was making up for over 20 years of nothing. A beautiful bouquet of velvet red roses arrived, complete with ‘To a wonderful girlfriend’ card and a newly released DVD.
In return, he got a very plain and sophisticated card, a delicious meal (delivered or I wouldn’t have used the word delicious) and some relaxing massage oil, to be used once I mastered the art, without him ending up in traction.
I was accused of only buying it so that I could use it too — totally untrue of course — and had to laugh when a colleague admitted his partner bought him 24 bottles of his favourite beer. Just so happens it was her favourite too. Good plan.
I’ve since decided men get the better deal, not just at Valentine’s but in life. It’s so easy to buy a bunch of flowers, a box of chocolates, a dinner date. Purely for research purposes I had a look at the ‘girlfriend’ cards and they too were a lot better than our offerings.
I take this to mean women care a lot more what is actually said in or on the card, whereas men just glance the one they are given, while heaving a great sigh of relief that the one offered in return received an acceptable response.
Another thing — If a man doesn’t know what to buy for his Valentine, there are numerous females he can call on for help — mothers, sisters, friends, shop assistants.
Who do we have? Fathers who need a 3-week warning that the day is approaching, brothers who prefer to wait to see what they get first, and other disillusioned females who after only 2 years would be more than grateful to get a ‘hello’ in the morning.
So scrub everything I said about Valentine’s. This dog has had her day and is satisfied with that.
Talking of satisfaction, I’ve had a lot of feedback about my earlier comments about choosing the fantasy over the hot chocolate. If you don’t understand what I mean, you’re either not a regular reader, or TV viewer.
I switched on yesterday to find my fantasy on screen — the lovely Steve Jones interviewing the delectable Richard Gere. And Richard was dancing, and Steve was just, well, sitting there — that was enough.
I did promise last time that I would tell you what happened when I went for my recent reunion with my favourite ex at one of our old haunts.
Let’s just say I will never be able to listen to the Dirty Dancing medley again, without going weak at the knees and this time in no way related to thoughts of Patrick.
After getting ‘Footloose’, we inspired the DJ to put on the megamix, which he dedicated to the ‘Johnny and Baby’ of the dancefloor. To say I had the time of my life would be an understatement. We had rhythm, we had music, who could ask for anything more. Mind you, rhythm was always one of his strong points.
After our choreographically sound spectacular, I spent the rest of the night protecting him from a South African lesbian who was an old next door neighbour of his during the times of ex-girlfriend no.1. Basically she wanted his body, but literally only his body. The words ‘turkey baster’ and ‘no commitment’ were used — closely followed by ‘She’s turned me to celibacy, get me out of here’.
So I did. And that’s all there is to tell.