Valentine’s Day

It had all gone according to plan, with no hint of shame or unease,

I’d picked ‘em out, picked ‘em up, handed ‘em over and paid for ‘em, neat as you please.

I had boldly strolled into the lingerie shop – unchallenged, unruffled, un-judged,

no-one had batted an eyelid and elbows stayed firmly un-nudged.

A perfectly genuine Man About Town Who is Planning a Special Surprise.

And nobody thought I was lurking. Or looking for stuff in my size.

But then I was handed a carrier bag, which caused my assurance to shrink -

a plainly preposterous luxury thing which was oversized, girly and pink

- a bag to be dangled by Hollywood starlets proclaiming the labels they buy,

a bag that announced to the rest of the world just where I’d been shopping and why.

They didn’t have anything plainer – a bag that was small and discreet

so I’d have endure the meddlesome gawping of jackanapes out in the street.

‘We also deliver’ the lady advised. I turned the idea down flat.

She doesn’t want lingerie shoved through her letterbox - how unromantic is that?

But who needs a bag for some items of nothingness fashioned from fresh air and lace?

A pocket would do and, between me and you, they don’t take up very much space.

I weighed up the dangers involved in this plan - scenarios raced through my mind -

underwear carelessly dropped in the street, my dignified cool undermined,

zealous policewomen pulling me in for some random new pocket inspection,

perhaps absent-mindedly placing a bra in the Salvation Army collection,

pulling out tangles of satin and lace as I wave to a casual friend

or wearily stopping and mopping my brow with an item I didn’t intend.

Or what if I simply forgot they were there – a slip that could happen with ease -

to later be faced with a stoney facade and those three icy words: ‘Whose are these?’

But holding on tight to my Valentine’s gift I set my misgivings aside

and set off for decisively heading for home with a dogged, though lopsided stride,

attempting to walk with the casual air of a man who has very good cause

to walk with his hands buried deep in his pockets, is harmless and breaking no laws.

I pondered that but for the foibles of fate, my trousers might look a lot lumpier

had Cupid’s arrow gone slightly awry hitting someone much fatter and frumpier.

I also had time to reflect on my lot and whether my choices were wise -

had I chosen the right sort of colour? had I managed to guess the right size?

Will my gift be excitedly welcomed? How would approval be shown?

And wrap ‘em! I quickly reminded myself, or all that hard work will be blown.

Yet they may disappoint or be flatly condemned as appropriate only for strippers.

However it goes on this Valentine’s day, next year I’m buying her slippers.