Valentines, schmalentines...

So, for the last few years running OH has been religiously buying me roses on Valentine's day, which although I insist I don't want, I still receive. So, I dutifully recycle the roses every 10 days later, stripping the petals off and discarding the stalk and scattering part of it on the table on which I serve his birthday dinner, then between clearing the dishes I surreptitiously pick out the cleanest rose petals and then throw them on the bed. Its not that any vigorous activity commences between the sheets after a 4 course dinner, but its the thought that counts. Who said romance was dead?

Anyway, this year I didn't receive any roses but I am relieved. I always find it difficult to look excited and to muster up enough enthusiasm over the hype that's created this Hallmark festival, sending a number of those in a relationship into a gaga eyed frenzy, and those who aren't into a depressive mood. Red blood on white bathroom tiles does not a Valentines make.

This year I had the perfect Valentines. We drove into the mountains and skiied all day with our best friends, then back to their châlet for some wine and fondue. A couple of joints thrown in and we played Pictionary until we felt tired and went to bed, the sound of the crackling fire in the stone stove, and the musty smell of old wood being the perfect canvas for a good night's sleep. And when we woke up the next day, the sun was blazing and there was fresh powder on the slopes.

But our car was stuck in ice.