V.D.

I began today's Valentine's Day in true retailtherapist-style: leaving the house in a sulk (me, I like my exits dramatic), accusing an unshaven (hatehatehate it) TD, who'd neglected to produce a card or bunch of flowers first thing in the morning and uncharacteristically not been near his desk so he could discover my present of being unromantic, which he isn't at all, actually. His post today which could be renamed "ode to retailtherapist with a bit of self-flaggelation sprinkled over it" (and which is not in Turkish, for a change) is proof of that. I am so not worthy of it!Really.

Anyway, an hour later he turned up at the office with cheeks as soft as a baby's bum, brandishing 11 absolutely beautiful loooooooong-stemmed roses (prompting another super-bitch comment from yours truly along the lines of "Great. And where do you suppose I'll find a big enough vase for these here at the office?") which you can see as background-motif at his blog today, a card and a box of Valrhona's "Carré de Cuanaja" chocolates. He'd planned all along to buy them at Lederleitner, Vienna's most prestigious flower shop paradise, which is round the corner from where I work. I was adaquately contrite and apologised for offending his honour as romantic hero #1.

The strange thing is - I don't actually give a shit about Valentine's Day at all and find that like Mother's Day it is one big conspiracy of florists, chocolate manufacturers and the greeting-card-industry. Until recently, it was no big deal here in Austria and husbands or boyfriends could get away without turning up with a red rose or some potted lilacs for the Missus. Thanks to my "foreign affair" I've since found out that Valentine's Day (or "lovers' day" as it is actually called in Turkish) is as big a deal in Turkey as it is in the U.K. or the U.S.A. where both parties buy gifts for their loved ones. I actually found out both about the Turkish and the Irish passion for it when I was (pretending to be) doing research for my thesis in Dublin in February 1996 and was staying with a friend of mine. Contrary to my hostess, her flatmate had a boyfriend and she was going on and on about what she was getting him for VD, what she was expecting to get from him. You get the picture. In the end, she got a small teddy bear and a huge one "to mind the small one" (no comment). Everyone was asking me what I had got for himself, as the Irish call their significant other. "Erm, I sent him a card", I replied. Shock! What, they have been going out for less than a year (i.e. should be madly in love still) and all she gets him is a card? Well, I actually thought a card and a phone-call was what I'd get from TD as well. Wrong, so wrong. First, a little book of love poetry arrived. Then, with DHL no less, a heart-shaped bouquet of dried roses. This sent my temporary flatmates and all their friends over the edge. The corner of the living-room where I stored my personal belongings more or less became an altar to TD's love and affection and whoever would come to visit would be dragged there immediately ( "Look what she got from her boyfriend, isn't that gooorgeous!") and they'd stand there, admiring his offerings for half an hour with me trying to escape to the kitchen where I'd pretend not to have heard the inevitable "And, what did she get him?" from the visitors. They'd be filled in in low tones by the flatmates anyway, tutting about this Austrian ice-queen who obviously refused to play by the VD rules.

Basically this is why I have certain expectations, you know. TD brought it on himself by setting such a high standard the first year. And I'm still a heartless bitch all the same...

Lunch-break purchases: Only groceries. Went to take the chef's torch (leaking valve) back to the shop...