Mon
AM. Ah, Valentine’ week, and for the first time in my earthly existence I don’t have to worry about it being the most cringe-inducing, awkward, and soul destroying time that it normally is. The reason? Why, I have a boyfriend, nay a fiancé… even better, I have a hopelessly romantic fiancé. My enjoyment of this week is so in the bag that I almost feel embarrassed to make eye contact with my less fortunate female colleagues. They have my sympathies.
PM. As suspected, female co-workers have been accidentally-on-purpose brushing off me in the hope that some of my romantic fairy dust will bring them good luck. Expecting incense burning and gifting of ceremonial muffins anytime soon.
Tuesday
AM. Ooh, dear. In the secret, unspoken competition amongst women regarding who received the most romantic gesture for Valentines – I have already won. In fact I should graciously remove myself from the running, it’s what Usain Bolt would do at a primary school egg and spoon race.
PM. Bloody cheek. Eimear from Accounts had the audacity to suggest that Owen’s propensity for extreme romance thus far in our relationship may actually work against me. She says that he has peaked too early in the season and it would be nigh on impossible for him to regain his past form. Infidel!
Wednesday
AM. Eimear’s cult of dissention quickly gathering followers! She says that I will be bitterly disappointed no matter what he does because romance is all relative really. This is what men complain about; the more romantic they are, the more romantic they are expected to be – it’s like being a premiership footballer; you’re only as good as your last goal or in this case, your last romantic meal with pink champagne.
PM. Have invited Owen around tonight, just to make sure that he knows that I am (along with the office females) expecting something spectacular on the 14th.
Thursday
AM. Feckin typical, it’s like Eimear has put the bloody mockers on me with her gypsy like curse; turns out Owen doesn’t really like the 14th because he feels under pressure to perform. He thinks every day should be Valentines because he loves me so much. Tried to calmly explain that EVERY DAY IS NOT VALENTINES ONLY VALENTINES IS VALENTINES. Told him he should’ve been more prudent and kept some romantic fuel in reserve, not sure if I may have hurt his feelings. Oh well.
PM. Eimear circulating; she knows something is afoot. She’s like the kind of person who watches you while you’re making tea and then tells you that the way you’re squeezing your tea bag will make the bag burst and then it does, even though that’s the way you’ve been squeezing the bag since the start of your tea drinking career. If this were medieval times she would be burned at the stake.
Friday
AM. Brainwave – think I know how the issue will be sorted.
PM. There, just spent the morning informing colleagues how my Owen and I shall be enjoying a romantic last minute trip to a luxury five star hotel in Paris. Ha! you should see the look on Eimear’s face – worth every penny of the €1,562 excl VAT!
