About Me

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London, United Kingdom
Holly Searle is a writer and an artist who was made in Soho and thereafter born in the heart of London. She has been blessed with two quite remarkable children and grandchildren whom she adores. She enjoys the company of her friends and the circus that is life, has a degree in Film and Television, and has exhibited her artwork in several exhibition.

Tuesday, 12 February 2013

Valentine's Day By Holly Searle

Hand on heart, I really don't like Valentine's Day.

There, I've said it.

It isn't that I am not a romantic, I am.

I truly, honestly am.

But, and here's the thing, my relationship with all things contrived and insanely marketed in order to make me want to rush out to the shops and spend money on heart shaped paraphernalia, just leaves me a bit cold.

If it's your thing, then please work away and ignore me while I rant on.

The actual Saint Valentine died on the very day that was posthumously named in his honour.

Already a shaky start, I am sure you'll agree, for a day that the Victorian's shamelessly appropriated for one that is meant to signify all things loving.

It is one of those made up days, that makes singletons stress about being single, and sees couples greeting the day with far too high an expectations of what it might deliver, only to be disappointed with what it actually does.

On top of all of that, I can clearly remember my Mum taking it upon herself to send me a Valentine's card in my formative years, just so I wouldn't feel like a social misfit.

Yes, I know that she was just being kind and that it very thoughtful, but when I found out that she had sent it, I felt even worse than I would have done, had I not of received one at all.

I also recall, with horror, the Valentine revelations of a fellow that I went to college with.

Every year he would opened a telephone directory and pinpoint a random recipient of an anonymous Valentine's card that he would be sending to them.

A stranger sending another stranger a card.

The very thought of it sends a chill down my spine.

Can you imagine the repercussions of his selfless (he proclaimed in his defence) heartfelt annual action?

I had visions of marriages braking up or lonely old dears becoming agoraphobic shut ins because they thought that they might have been targeted by a stalker.

Or maybe , the card he sent, would be received by the widower of the intended recipient. Who was all at once, reminded of his lost love on seeing her name on the envelope, but then in a cat's whisker of a moments thought, after opening it, began to doubt his beloved was as true to him as he had always thought.

The mind boggles.

But maybe his actions helped save a few rocky relationships. Helped to pep them up a bit and reignited a few sparks, that in turn made way for a new fiery passion.

Or maybe they just made someone feel good about themselves (I think that was his overall intention to be honest).

We shall never know.

All the same, not unlike the actions of the Milk Tray Man, I found it a all bit creepy.

Apart from the one that my Mum had sent to me, I have had my own fair share of genuine cards, all sent from real admirers that I knew well.

When I think about them now, I realise, that they were just like the men that had sent them.

One I shall always remember, as the person who sent it, was sweet, kind, and funny and I should never have let him go.

One was sent in the form of a riddle, that I must admit, I was never able to solve and even to this day infuriates me.

And just like the sender who had sent it, was an enigma parading as a mystery, who even from this distance, I was glad to see the back of.

I cannot remember the last time I ever received one.

And that is fine.

Who knows, maybe this year I'll get an anonymous one from a random stranger.

Now wouldn't that be funny.

My point is this.

You shouldn't really need one day to remind you to tell the person (or persons) that you love, that you, well, that you love them really.

Just tell them every day.

You don't need a card or a fancy novelty balloon, or even a long gone saint as an excuse.

And that is why, my very dear friends, I don't like Valentine's Day.

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