Valentine's Day
Like most men, the Ginger does not have a romantic bone in his body. In fact, after years of extensive searching, I don’t think he has any bones at all.
Sometimes there’s evidence of a spine, but it never seems to last long. And sure, there’s an appendage he might personally himself consider romantic, but he might also find I would not entirely agree with him on that.
Mind you, we are talking about a man who celebrates Valentine’s Day by going to the local smorgasbord restaurant--by himself--and eating his own bodyweight in ham-off-the bone and chocolate eclairs.
“It’s not about getting piling your plate with enough food to feed a family of four,” I tried explaining to him this year. “In fact, it’s not actually about food.”
“Huh?” his face crumpled into a confused expression and the light went out in his eyes. Then I realized I was not actually looking at the Ginger, but the vacuous fluffy toy I stuff my PJs into. I make this mistake quite often. Can’t think why. Husbands keep their PJs on the outside.
“It’s about expressing love and affection to your sweetheart,” I continued when I tracked him down. “It’s about romance and mystery.”
“Huh?” he said again, his face crumpling into a confused expression and the light going out in his eyes. I checked his back for a zip but there wasn’t one. It was him, all right.
“It’s your chance to show me how much you worship the ground I float above, you great galah!” I shrieked. “Just what is it about Valentine’s Day that you don’t understand?”
He blinked uncomprehendingly at me. “Why we have it,” he answered. “That’s what I don’t understand.”
Saints preserve us, does he not watch the television commercials?
“We have it,” I explained in a cool and superior fashion, “because back in the third century the very, very, very famous Saint Valentine, possibly the most famous saint of them all in fact, was out one day, probably on a horse, a big white one, when..."
To be honest, I suddenly found myself hazy on the details.
“When what?” the Ginger asked, a dull light returning to his peepers.
“When the postman delivered to his letterbox--a letterbox of the medieval variety, that is--a card bearing an anonymous message from a saucy wench. And so,” I said with a great flourish, ”began the grand tradition of anonymous card sending on St Valentine’s Day.”
In retrospect, it didn’t really sound like a monumental enough event to have a day named after it.
“And then came three wise men,” I added as an afterthought, “bearing Paris perfume, Rose’s chocolates and small very sparkly ear adornments.”
“For St. Valentine?” the Ginger asked. “What? He was gay?”
Can’t work out what “pull” means on a door but can pick holes in a story from 40 paces. You wouldn’t credit it.
“They were WISE men, doofus,” I snapped. “They were bringing the gifts for St. Valentine to give to his sweetheart.”
“His anonymous sweetheart? The one he didn’t know the name nor presumably the address of?”
I had to admit, he had me. What’s a saint doing accepting soft porn from a nameless tart anyway? Let alone gifts from three gay stalkers. It’s not right.
“Come on,” the Ginger said gently. “Why don’t you just sit down and I’ll light a few candles and cook you a lovely dinner and give you a back rub like I do every night.”
True, he’s not much of a one for an occasion and you can’t bend him over and stuff your jammies in him but he has his uses, bless him. 
