I remember a particular Valentine’s Day when I was fifteen and especially sad. To this day I don’t think I’ve experienced a melancholy around singleness like it. I had spent the day with my best friend trapesing around Southbank, indulging in frozen yogurt from the bright cerise SNOG bus that stayed parked along the bank. She had plans for the evening that she had to get dressed and ready for. She had, a date. I was waiting for the guy I liked to acknowledge the fact it was Valentine’s Day, or to just message me at all that day. It was on the bus home that what I can only surmise as a rush of teenage dread and exaggeration ensued. Reflecting on the ride from Waterloo to Dulwich, by the time I got off the bus, I felt so acutely aware of my singles-ness (in retrospect, girl, you were fifteen). My lack of an admirer, lack of a date, even just my lack of chocolates. I got home, fled to my room, and was misery for the rest of the evening. PARTYNEXTDOOR most probably soundtracked my night.
You got me, I am a romantic. Now my relationship with the Day of Lovers is far less dramatic and depressing. This year, despite not seeing anybody in the build up to the day, and having no special date planned, I was actually pretty excited. We forget, as cheesy as it sounds, that it is a celebration of love, and that comes in all forms, not just the romantic. A day to revel in love sounds like a day well spent to me. Little heart shaped ornaments in shops made me smile and I bought a lollipop of a dog holding a rose for my friend in honour of the lead up to the special day. I purchased cards and made arrangements to host a Galentines (the day before Valentines day, especially for the besties) dinner when we were still in the early days of January.
Normally I’d be opposed to any discussions of V-day so early, lets take stock of the New Year, enjoy the festive buzz that still hangs in the air that first week of January before it fully dissipates. But this year, I was eager. A large part of it was due to the fact that I had the week off from work, and usually I’d be spending it stuck helping men choose perfumes for their spouses, discreetly asking if they want the two perfumes they bought to be put in separate bags. When this was the case, they would always break eye contact and nod looking down. Some customers however are shameless, I’ve had men flirt with me whilst I wrap a gift with the personalised ribbon they’ve addressed to their girlfriend. They rarely ever buy two of the same perfume for their girlfriend and mistress—or whatever category their two separate lovers come in—which I always find strange, and unwise. I thought that was pretty high up in the rule book of cheating, less room for mishaps if you always smell of the same woman. If you’re going to cheat, cheat responsibly!
One year, there was a particularly charming older Jamaican man who bought three big cello wraps filled with perfume, a teddy bear, and a box of chocolates each finished with a personalised ribbon to his three separate women. He had come in just before close on the first Valentines day I had worked; to save time I helped him write his three messages. I say helped, he simply gave me the names of the women and I freestyled the rest, finishing each message with a cocktail of emojis I thought best conveyed adoration. I laughed when he told me the name of the second woman, because her name had started with the same letter as the first, “do all their names start with ‘S’?!” I joked. After he left, I shook my head to my manager, condemning the lothario. “At least they all get 100ml bottles”, she offered.
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We settled on Jacuzzi for our Galentines dinner, an Italian restaurant along Kensington High Street that I’d walked passed in the summer and had wanted to go to ever since. Gorgeous décor, illustrious menu, tiramisu, I needn’t say more. A group chat was made and me and my cousin religiously added to our joint Pinterest board with Galentines inspiration, “I’ll get each of you a rose!” she gleamed when we cemented our plans.
In pointed red lace heels decorated with a singe bow, I clicked my feet to the train station. My long black skirt swayed with the evening breeze as I held my fur coat closed, not putting in the effort to fiddle with the hooks and close it properly. I arrived at Kensington station about twenty minutes early, the Circle line arriving at Victoria uncharacteristically speedy that day. Due to the fact that I hate standing still somewhere and waiting around (I’ll walk to the next bus stop if a bus is taking too long just so it feels like I’m cutting through time a bit), I walked down the road with no direction. It became apparent that my shoes were undeniably uncomfortable, and I feared it wasn’t a matter of ‘breaking them in’, rather they were just painful by design.
Coming to this sobering realisation, I decided to head back to the direction of the restaurant and sit at our table before the girls arrived. A large wooden door with a gleaming gold handle opened up to reveal large velvet draping in a shade of ruby red. Your eyes immediately fixed onto the golden marble staircase. The ground floor is decorated with large trees and twines which obscure lavish bars and various framed prints which reflect a sense of 1960s nostalgia. Light pink chandeliers hang low and loud conversation competes with the eclectic décor to fill the room.
The menu is in Italian, and I feel nervous about my pronunciation. I drink the best cocktail I’ve ever had which is a mixture of limoncello, as I have predilection for liqueurs, and champagne. We exchange mini boxes of chocolate, roses, and share a box of itsy cupcakes. We chat about other restaurants we want to try and how we have to make more time for things like this. When our food arrives the table falls silent, always the best sign that the food is satisfying.
Our lips were all in various shades of faded red, the pigment of each waning after blunt contact with forks and spoons and too many sips on cocktail glasses. We take an untold amount of selfies in the bathroom as squares of blue and red light reflect onto our faces from the oscillating disco light. We dance freely to the 70s funk that blares in the bathroom, all agreeing they should play this on the restaurant floor instead. The room feels like a nightclub, and we act thought it were. It was a Galentines well spent.
A skirt made for movement: Sheer top, Daisy Street, skirt, Primark, red bow bag, Vinted, pointed slingback heels, Boohoo, hibiscus flower earrings, Etsy, gold cuff bangle, Primark
I spent actual Valentine’s day eating pizza by the slice (that way you can try multiple flavours) at Gordo’s in Peckham with my friend. The special of the day came with a scratch card and there was unlimited parmesan. We bought Oreo flavoured Coca Cola, an unnecessary amount of snacks, and headed off to Peckhamplex for a late showing of Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy. It’s only right to watch a romcom on Valentine’s.
The cinema was packed, and an elderly couple in their late 60s sat on my left as we all nestled closely together on one of the small rows that seat just four. The man rustled a bottle of prosecco from his bag and poured him and his wife a glass. He guffawed late into punchlines, and she shushed him when he spoke too much, usually to ask what he had missed. The movie was feel-good, the atmosphere, electric! “Bridget’s first talking stage” my friend whispered, and we couldn’t stop ourselves from laughing, now she’s just like us.
The audience, unsurprisingly made up mostly of women, cheered with lustful intent when Leo Woodall came on screen. I don’t quite think I can describe the energy of the theatre when he emerged wet from the pool shirtless against the backdrop of Dinah Washingtons ‘Mad About the Boy’. It was distinctively lascivious. Mascara tears stained my cheeks when, despite furious efforts, I could no longer hold back the tears. Explorations of grief, romance, and love, all signed off with lots of laughter, it was the perfect V day spectacle.
Though I kept inadvertently saying ‘Halloween’ when referring to Valentine’s day for the whole week of its lead up (the subconscious is a strange thing), I didn’t feel any of my teenage misery this time around. I was buzzing from my dinner with some friends the night before, and too excited for my evening to take care about my singledom during the day. I actually felt romanced.
I do hope your Valentine’s Day was filled with love, in whichever way that might be, because truly that’s what counts. I think we should honour romance and not shy away from it. If you find yourself to be without a partner and feel especially self-conscious about it, as insecure teen-me did, don’t wish for Valentine’s to hurriedly pass as though it exists only to mock you. Seize the opportunity instead to recognise and celebrate the love that flows through your life. Also be mindful in remembering that really, the modern day iteration of the holiday is largely about consumerism, cards, and chocolate.
So, delight in a little love.
Queencoc0 Talks 
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