It was Valentine’s Day yesterday, yet another date about which I am fairly ambivalent, along with birthdays, anniversaries and Xmas. I really don’t expect my beloved to buy me anything, and certainly not any of the traditional Valentine’s gifts, most of which are simply not to my taste.
Our first year together, he bought me a pair of pearl earrings for Valentine’s Day. Easily one of his better gifts, although this was largely to assuage the gi-normous faux pas of buying me a casserole for my 21st birthday. I simply cannot recall (and I have a memory like an elephant) any other Valentine’s Day gifts. Either they were eminently forgettable or he wised up and didn’t bother.
However, I am always amazed at the rash of red underwear that arrives in the run-up to Valentine’s Day. Like most women, I am partial to expensive, well-fitting and matching undergarments. To be honest, it’s pretty much de rigueur over here. However, my beloved is ill-equipped to undertake this type of purchase. Not so Frenchmen, who stride around underwear departments with knowledge and purpose, steering well clear of the scarlet stuff. They understand it’s not a colour that would gladden the heart of any women. I have underwear in pretty much every hue. I have sets in apricot, rose, deep pink, burgundy, but not red. There’s not even a hint of red or even a red trim on my admittedly extensive collection.
So the question bothering me is what happens to all of this red underwear? Or is it just window dressing meant to act as a red rag to a bull in the run up to Valentine’s Day.