Valentine's Day was sidelined this year, as we were going to a friend's wedding in deepest darkest rural France. I did get these roses though.
Unfortunately, they arrived two hours before leaving for Champagne, and apparently it's considered inappropriate to bring your own bouquet to a wedding. It's 'her day'. Or something. Cue childish peeve for the whole drive there, silence punctuated by whines, interspersed with moans and gritted teeth.
Luckily, despite leaving the heating on full for a weekend after leaving in a whirlwind of half-ironed shirts, laddered tights, and sulks, they were still there when I got back. As was this
Christ no, it's not a soft toy. You think I'd tolerate giant Moomin-faced horses as a gesture of romance at my age? Especially when I'd asked for, and was promised, a pony. A real one.
It is, however, considered animal cruelty under the laws of both France and Belgium (fact. I might even have checked) to keep a pony in a sixth-floor one-room apartment, and I'm in no position to afford stabling fees at present. Which is why...
Yes, a space-hopper. A space-hopper pony. It's genius.
One hitch is his repeated exhortations to 'hump the pony' and refusal to believe hump does not mean ride. This has gone on for so long, I have begun to doubt myself, and wonder if he is a linguistic throwback to more innocent times. Upon checking the dictionary, I discover, indeed, that
Main Entry: 2hump
- Function: verb
- Date: circa 1785
Who knew. I shall now defer to the Frenchman in all linguistic squabbles, and hump the pony merrily like there's no tomorrow.