On this Day…

… about thirty years ago, I received my very first Valentine’s Day card.

I was a gawky, lanky, overly serious and extremely studious teenager, and the notion that someone might “fancy” me from afar was utterly incomprehensible.

Yet there it was. A Valentine’s card, a real one, written in an unfamiliar hand, complete with naff verse and an anonymous sign-off.

My usually furrowed brow became a trench.

I could not conceive of a universe in which I, an awkward and unattractive teenager, could possibly have an admirer.

But it did get me thinking…

The fact that I was so unattractive did not mean that I didn’t harbour romantic notions of my own. There were several (I daresay, many) targets of my own very secret and naive desires. A neighbour across the road, a chap I’d seen performing on stage at Christs’ Hospital School (God I loved those yellow socks), and the ginger guy in Memphis Belle all had my heart. Kind of. But I was happy admiring these boys from afar. They would never know of my love. Unrequited was fine by me.

I was a watcher – I still am, and watching was enough. Watching Amadeus at CH school, watching the neighbour from behind my bedroom window (not creepy, honestly), watching Memphis Belle over in my mind, before the days of streaming, and when we couldn’t afford videos. I’d imagine scenarios where I might meet the people I admired, say something cool, and live happily ever after.

I once asked Mum if I could write to Jim’ll Fix It so that I could meet George Michael. On what grounds I was going to put my case forward I do not know, but George was another of my crushes, years before I even turned gawky. I loved him from the age of seven, and so felt qualified to ask for a meet’n’greet. Thankfully, my mum didn’t entertain such nonsense and shot my request down with an eminently sensible rebuff. For which I am grateful. The further away from that Fix It chap we 80s kids could stay, the better. I dodged a bullet.

Of course, thirty something years ago, there was no way I would ever have really wanted to meet the objects of my desire. That would have been mortifying. Not just because I was so flipping awkward and unattractive but also because I was quite frankly scared of men and marriage and anything “sexy”. Literally terrified. I cried when I watched Dirty Dancing. When most young ladies would be wanting to maximise their looks, I had my hair cut short, which must have been a subconscious effort to deflect attention away from the metamorphosis of my body, I think. I told the hairdresser that I didn’t want the cut to be “fashionable”. That was his brief, and he delivered.

So there I was, five foot eight, lanky, spotty and with a brown, fringed bowl cut. And with a Valentine’s card…

You may be able to imagine just how perplexing this was for me.

Was the card from the student who had played Amadeus in his yellow socks? The neighbour I had my eye on? Or…was it from George Michael? Probably not (!) but it was from someone…

Why would this someone like me? And what should I do about it? Write back..? I was so very confused. A part of me got quite excited to think a person actually thought I was nice.

So I stared and stared at that card, and the neat, small handwriting that adorned it. My mum – instead of being as bemused as I, was very pleased about the the arrival of this exciting missive.

I did let my imagination run wild for a bit – and I do remember feeling somewhat hopeful that love would not elude me; that my quirks were in fact being embraced, even if it was metaphorically, and from afar.

But there was one particularly curious feature of my Valentine’s card, namely, it had a twin. My brother, oddly, had received a similar card, in the same handwriting, with a near-identical message. My brother was younger, cooler and probably less ready for romance than even I was at that time. Nevertheless, these two cards adorned our mantelpiece for a few days, reeking of mystery and intrigue, suggesting possibilities my sibling and I had not yet even considered.

I was probably overthinking it, as usual.

I’m not sure how the penny dropped eventually, or why, but there was probably a certain amount of distress involved in the secrecy of the whole episode, and so, eventually, Mum confessed. She had bought the cards, got her friend at work to sign them, and then posted them to our home in the interests of giving her teenagers an ego boost.

I cannot convey just how OUT OF CHARACTER this was. Some readers might say they’d have suspected Mum all along, especially with the matching handwriting and my bowl cut. Nothing else really made sense. But because Mum didn’t usually go in for such soppy nonsense, nor such deception, I didn’t suspect her. And when the truth came out, I was floored.

Nobody actually loved me after all!

I was gutted for a bit. And surprised. Even to this day, I am not sure what possessed her. I wonder if she can remember? I will ask her.

And the beauty is, I can still ask her.

Last week, my dad died.He had been ill for a long time and his death was expected. I’m pleased he is now out of pain. But he’s gone now, and any further questions I may have had for him will go unanswered. That is sobering. And sad.

I’m a wannabe believer in spirits and the paranormal. Death may be the end, but it may also be a liberating new beginning. The essence of a person can surely not just disappear. It must go somewhere – or stay somewhere. I think Dad’s essence therefore must have made it to Heaven’s version of Kefalonia by now, where he has met up with his brother after many years apart. They’re drinking ouzo on the beach, unfettered by ailing bodies and earthly worries, safe in the knowledge that in the end, everything is all, always, ok.

Love you, Dad. Thanks for the lessons you taught me, and for your positivity in the face of all the sh!t that life has a habit of throwing at us sometimes. And say hi to Uncle R for me. He no doubt knows the ropes up there, and will look after you. x