Do you know what's better than getting flowers for Valentine's Day? Getting flowers the day after Valentine's Day. Yup. It's all kinds of radness.
I've just been disturbed from my I-am-so-shattered-I-just-need-to-lie-down-on-my-couch-and-read-mindless-literature rest. Only to be greeted by the haggard face of flower delivery man. He's a hunk is flower delivery man. Well-spoken too - I had to ask him to repeat "print name here" four times to understand him.
And not one but two bunches of roses - one for the self and one for The Daughter.
My card reads:
Pant O Pant,
Love you up.
I was originally going to chalk White Bear's late flower delivery up to Valentine's being such a busy day for florists. He would obviously not be able to control the exorbitant number of blooms for delivery on the 14th. Or perhaps the fact that I was only home for a brief 30 minutes yesterday, during which time I probably would not have heard the doorbell over the loud expletives finding expulsion from my mouth at The Maid's sheer skill for being able to hide my new skinnys that make my arse look edible, in the most unlikely places. (They were found in The Daughter's knicker drawer in the end. Can someone kindly explain that logic to me?)
But I've worked out that White Bear sent me flowers the day after Valentine's just to prove he loves me everyday. And he doesn't need to be told which day to show his love. It's endless. Flowers because he loves me and not because everyone else is showing it. Rad. Ness.
White Bear has been sending me flowers, faithfully, every year since I can remember. His spelling has improved, over the years. One year, his message read, "Eye luvvvvv yoo.". And his writing is a little bit bigger. One year he sent me a card that, at the time, was taller than me. And it had, "I love you" written in such small handwriting at the bottom right hand corner that I asked White Bear to take the card back to his bedroom and write in it. But since White Bear is a secret admirer and annually denies his existence, it was The Father that showed me White Bear's miniature scrawl.
And so, White Bear, I hope you read my blog - I suppose it's likely given the fact that you've been stalking me for 20 years at least - this poem is for you:
You're all kinds of rad,
And now I'm a touch sad,
Because I want to give you a hug
And talk rubbish & drink tea in a mug.
The Pant loves The Father muchly. He really is the grooviest old guy out there.