For all of you who will be celebrating the death of a quasi-fictional, god-bothering soppy bastard tomorrow, may I remind you that February 14th is also the anniversary of the death of P G Wodehouse, a man who could bring more joy in a few words than a warehouse full of crap verses hawked by the avaricious to the gullible.
So don't waste your money on rip-off meals and chemical laden flora, perambulate merrily in the general direction of your library and pick up an improving novel.
"He was a tubby little chap who looked as if he had been poured into his clothes and had forgotten to say 'when!'"
6 comments:
Before I went to bed last night I left a tiny box of chocolate on the table,at the place of each grandchild. Does that count against me?
The key here is "Tiny".
How singularly cruel.
When men tell me what a con Valentire's Day is, I look at the faces of their wives. They're usually expressionless at best. But I'm sure you're a hopeless romantic every other day of the year, dear Vicus.
How I Spent My Valentine's Night, 2014: Reading Vicus's Blog.
And they say romance is dead.
You great soft bastard.
I neither sent nor received, and merely sat at home feeling angry and ignored. I put that down to failing blog readership. Up yours, Roth x
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