Two weeks ago he sighed in relief and settled snuggly in my back pocket. Some of his crinkly friends were back, and he gladly evicted the till slips, ATM receipts and McDonald’s napkins scribbled with story ideas to make room for them.
And slowly they marched in; an elephant, a couple of buffalo, even a lion found its way inside. He longed for a cheetah, but knew it was dangerous to get one’s hopes up.
But he was happy, and foolishly he settled into a false sense of security.
Then, on an uneventful afternoon, not silently sneaking but with a kind of brazen disregard for all he holds dear, the poachers came once more.
Not so long ago it was Father Christmas. Slashing and dragging the animals out; his red suit splattered with darker spots of crimson that dripped onto his black boots. The jolly fat man killed his poor friends with a ho-ho-ho, and as my old friend gazed deep into their glazed eyes he knew he could do nothing but fold himself back over and question the Universe.
And now, just when things were looking up, another man has come once more to complete this eternal cycle of suffering. He calls himself a saint, and a childlike cherub wielding a crossbow travels with him. They smile through razor teeth and begin their annual slaughter.
He tries to stop the mayhem. Screaming up at me with his black leathery lips he implores, “Stop them! It’s a trick. A ploy. Don’t let them take my friends away.”
I remember how good he’s been to me – carrying my silver and bronze, protecting the dangerous plastic cards that travel through time to retrieve money I haven’t earned yet. I pause for a moment, just to hear what he has to say:
Forget the grumbles about it being a commercial, money-making gimmick, Valentine’s Day is a day contrived to let men without a romantic bone in their bodies off the hook.
Their significant others go an entire year without flowers, chocolates, candlelit dinners or picnics in the sunshine. They are never served sausages and hashbrowns in bed, let alone taken on a sunset cruise with champagne and hors d’oeuvers.
But on Valentine’s Day it all changes. Not because society expects it and wrestles their will into submission, but because these men know that if they perform even the most menial of romantic gestures on this day, all their past unromantic actions will be ignored.
Their only penance for this inconsiderate, insensitive behaviour is a bit of extra dosh on the daisies and maybe the hassle of having to make a restaurant reservation in advance. They slouch off to the CNA and pick from a plethora of recycled sentiments, neatly packaged in plasticky paper.
The Valentine’s Day Big Spender, for the next 364 days, will be the man who insists on Saw 3D over Shakespeare in Love, chooses beers with his mates over cuddles on the couch, and – the most unforgiveable of relationship sins – leaves the toilet seat up.
But this is not all the Y chromosome’s fault. Women are just as much to blame for allowing men to become so pathetically apathetic. If they insisted on something more from the boorish oafs they spent all their time getting dolled up for, things might be different.
On bended knees my wallet begs me to be more than one of these men; to make a stand against society and, in a grand statement, turn every other day into one of thoughtfulness and surprise.
“Make romance the rule, not the exception,” my wallet rails, “and I won’t mind sacrificing my furry friends for the Greater Good.”
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