Friday, February 06, 2004

Valentine’s Day is looming on the horizon, and I suspect it's too late to send a card home to England. Lucky, then, that there’s nobody I really want to send one to.

I like making and sending Valentine’s cards. Making them is definately better than buying them; much more personal and significant. As I once read, it’s an essential part of loving somebody, along with cooking potato-and-leek soup when they’re ill and giving oral sex without being asked.

Apparantly the Italians don’t go for Valentine’s Day quite as much as we do, which is a disappointment and a surprise. And even when they do, cards are signed and are only for one’s lover; the idea of sending one to somebody you wish to be with is alien or, at best, another example of English eccentricity. And Italians are meant to be romantic?

So: I like making the cards and, being English, I can get away with the odd behaviour of sending them to somebody who isn't my girlfriend. But who? I am, in fact, in lust with one of my students but I know she has a boyfriend because I gave my boss – who teaches her colleagues – the mission of researching this question, and she returned with the wrong answer. Besides, where would all this leave one’s teacher-student relationship, especially if she says no? At least, in theory, I don’t have to worry what my boss thinks; after my first lesson with the girl, I left the class and was greeted with a knowing nod and a wink: “She’s very pretty, isn’t she?”.

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