In which our correspondent atones for Valentine’s Day sins past…
By the time you read this, Valentine’s Day will be fast approaching or will have already passed. If you’re anything like me, you’ll have forgotten about it beforehand, and quite often, not even realised the fact afterwards.
In my defence, I almost always remember things eventually – birthdays, anniversaries, Mother’s Day, and so on – but normally not until a couple of months afterwards, by which time it’s far too late to make amends, and I have already been sent to Coventry/excommunicated/crossed off the Christmas card list.
This Valentine’s Day is going to be different – largely as a result of what happened last year. First, the background. I travel every week. Normally flying out Saturday evening or Sunday lunchtime so I can get to where I am going by Sunday night, ready for Monday. I try to get back on Friday night but if I’m returning from Asia, it will be Saturday morning nice and early, before my wife and children are even awake. Those are my favourite times – making breakfast and listening to the house wake up around me, almost as if I’m a normal dad.
We have busy lives, us travellers, and measure our years differently from the stay-at-homes. When I was a child, the school year gave my life a rhythm, but now I’d have to check my diary to know what month it is. When the kids started school, I thought the term thing would reassert itself, but the truth is, outside their holidays, I have no idea about their timetables – when their school plays are, or their parents’ evenings. If they are playing football on a weekend then I’ll be there, nine times out of ten. But for anything from Sunday afternoon through to Friday night or often Saturday morning, don’t count on me. And no one does.
So last February, when a conference was suddenly called off, it was a lovely surprise. I’d flown out on Sunday ready to start on Monday morning, but after a problematic first day, the event had to be cancelled. I spent a busy evening sorting out everyone’s travel arrangements, then fell into bed. The next day, I called my wife with the good news – I would be home early, mid-afternoon at the latest.
After a quick pitstop in our London office, I still managed to catch a reasonably early train home. Normally it’s pretty quiet at this time, but not this evening, when everyone seemed to be carrying shopping or an awkwardly shaped bag. I called home, found a seat – and fell asleep. I woke just as the train was about to leave my station, but the guy next to me had a big package in the aisle that he couldn’t move in time, and so I watched the platform drift away.
Illustration by Ben Southan
It wasn’t a total disaster. Our house is between two stations so I called and said I was going to the second one, as if I’d meant for it to happen, as opposed to being so indifferent about seeing my family that I nodded off. There are more shops by that station and as I remembered we needed a few things and wanted to be helpful, I bought them and jumped in a cab.
There was a flurry of greetings at the door before the kids ran back to the TV, leaving the two of us. Clearly, I was supposed to say something, since my wife was looking expectantly at me. I told her she looked lovely – was that a new dress? – and how odd it had been on the train, since at least three guys had been carrying flowers. Made me wonder what they’d done wrong. She kind of smiled – was that a new lipstick? – and I gave her the package I’d picked up.
It’s fair to say her expression changed when she saw it what it contained – a light bulb for the cooker extraction hood. Only then, I swear, did I have my own light bulb moment and realise it was Valentine’s Day, and that my references to flowers had prepared her for a very different “present”. The bulb immediately acquired a symbolic weight, something about how I must perceive her, and her role in my life. It was also a bit late to pretend it was a joke and I had booked dinner and arranged a babysitter, because clearly I hadn’t.
I’d like to say we laugh about it now. But we don’t. So this year will be different. I have planned the whole month around February 14. I’ve bought the card, ordered the roses, and reserved a table in an overpriced restaurant. I’m sure it will go well, but it’s very stressful. This must be what they mean when they say, “Let’s make a date of it.” I’ll let you know how it goes.
