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Valentine’s Day came and went with little fanfare this year, due largely to the fact that Fiona is in Vietnam, helping orphans or somesuch. That girl, honestly.
Unsurprisingly, email and other asynchronous modes of communication have a real knack for destroying the romance of the occasion (candy manufacturers’ and florists’ conspiracies aside, that is), so I might just have to tough it out and wait the four weeks until she returns. Unreasonable, I know. In the mean time I’ve had marvelous results distracting myself with very heavy drinking; this past tenday has been populated with more 21st Birthday celebrations than I care to count (four, if you must know), and I get the feeling the rest of the year will be similarly packed.
So to Dave, Gregor, Nick, and Ali: Happy 21st Birthday(s). To Fiona: Happy Valentine’s Day. Come home before I die of self–abuse.