Valentine's Day Massacre

Not the most original title, nor the most enigmatic, but needs must when Cupid does not, in fact, drive, and romance is not so much dead but lying squawking bathetically beneath the remains of the Big Mac meal your truly hopeless self has attemped to smother your feelings in.

Valentine's Day, another singularly joyless festival for those of us who remain freakishly unattached. This year, the rot truly set in last week at the Co-op when, attempting to simultaneously prise free a baguette that had become wedged in the basket, pack three large bottles of lactose-free milk in a string bag and maintain control of the Axis, who were setting about the teasingly leaning Malteser pyramid with alarming dexterity, I was asked if I'd like to buy a raffle ticket. A raffle ticket? At the Co-op? Is it now doubling up as a school PTA? Not bloody surprising, as long as Gove sticks around, I thought darkly. 'Erm...why are you selling raffle tickets?' The unnecessarily expansive lady at the till was, for once, silent, marking a great change in her demeanour from last time she tried to assist me with my shopping ('Ooooh, Chilli Chilli Bang Bang pizza. Lovely and spicy. What've you got to go with that then? Some lager? Lovely. And what's this...? Ah. Gentleman friend coming over tonight is he?'). Growing scarlet at the memory of the landlord's son, lurking in the queue behind me and whistling 'Something for the Weekend' as I'd grabbed my purchases and ran, I too said nothing but followed her gaze, which rested upon an hideous pink wicker hamper, stuffed to the brim with what was either the entire contents of Alastair Campbell's shredder or a year's worth of used hamster bedding. Dotted around the mouldering debris were a half bottle of extra fizzy Lambrini, two plastic champagne flutes, a packet of savoury rice cakes and some cheese with a scribbled-out sell-by date. Half a Flake was also sticking out, in the corner. I didn't dare look around at the vile Kong as I was pretty sure I knew what had happened to the other half.

'Valentine's hamper. For two,' she added, pointedly, nodding conspiratorially at me. I cleared my throat, but my voice still came out in a slightly ridiculous squeak. 'Erm. Well, I won't have one. I've...er...got no use for that, you see.' Her head cocked to the side in sympathy. 'Ahhhh. And with those two so small, as well. Well, you do very well,' she said confidently. I smiled and nodded, slightly dazed, wondering what had just happened.

What do I do very well? It isn't work, that's for sure. My peers are all shooting off into the career stratosphere, while I, emphatically, painfully, am not. I am a lousy parent, always trying to sneak ways of escaping from the Axis and being mean to and about them. My house will never be burgled, because anyone looking in through the windows could quite confidently assume we'd been done already. I'm unfit, I like drinking far more than I should, I never have any money and I am exceedingly grumpy. Yep, why I'm still single is beyond me.

On the blessed day itself, I am recovering from a hangover induced by accidentally consuming the entire contents of Miss Whippy's spirit cupboard the night before while the Axis were at their dad's. (Miss Whippy is an ice cream maker of some repute, and a good friend of mine, whom I won't shame by naming). It had been some time since we had seen each other, and in the ensuing enthusiasm of reunion,  we had discovered that a rum and ginger beer sorbet went well with port, tequila, red and white wine and pomelos. The following morning, both close to death, Miss Whippy presented me with a gift. 'For you. Happy Valentine's Day,' she added, handing over two bags of milk chocolate eyeballs and a soap that looked like a goldfish. I was touched.

Several years ago, when we had first started going out, Daddio had very nearly disgraced himself by turning up over an hour late to our very first Valentine's Day dinner together. When he did finally show, I was pretty livid, even more so when he refused to explain himself. I supposed that he had gone for a couple of thoughtless lunchtime beers with a chum and inconsiderately missed his train. Somehow, we got through the meal, although I spent most of it planning exactly how I was going to chuck him. When we were leaving, he stopped me, told me to wait a minute, and ran back inside, returning with a large box. I was mystified. What on earth was going on? He handed it over, and told me to open it. Inside was a beautiful handmade teapot that we had seen in a shop in Bath the week before. I had admired it, as teapots are to me what shoes and jewellery are to most women, and, sighing over the hefty price tag, had left it. Daddio, who lived in Reading at the time, had got the train to Bath to get the teapot, but when he arrived, couldn't find the shop, spent most of the afternoon walking around trying to find it, and then, when he did find it, found it closed. He had had to ring the owner and beg her to turn up to sell it to him, just so that he could get back on the train to Bristol and give it to me. That was why he had been late. The teapot was beautiful and I was overwhelmed by the effort Daddio had gone to to get it for me. What a wonderful token of love.

Last week, the spout fell clean off and smashed.

Ah well. The Axis and I climbed Cabot Tower and looked out over the city. As they chattered and giggled and harangued the pigeons crapping overhead, I realised, fondly, that my two little cherubs are far better than any amount of hearts and flowers and romantic claptrap. That's love. That's what St Valentine was all about.

Happy Valentine's Day to all.

No Church in the Wild

The vexed question of faith and religion seems to be ever-present these days, particularly at Axis Towers, whose inhabitants attend church, loosely and lazily, my belief in God being considerably more robust than my alarm clock. Daddio, a confirmed atheist, is none too impressed with this and is still pushing for membership of the Woodcraft Folk rather than the Scouts - fine with me, as church parade is, to my mind, a torture for all involved. In true obstinate, arrogant fashion, I've managed to perpetuate my belief that, er, my beliefs are no-one's business but mine and the Almighty's, and, consequently, I will do what I like. Happily, 'what I like' does not involve gunning down old ladies, selling class-A drugs to preschoolers, or committing obscenities in the street (I said in the street); so the worst I have to deal with are a few raised eyebrows and the occasional tut-tut at the surprisingly ample number of empties in the recycling box; the odd loud burst of profanity coming from the back garden; and the occasional insult of bad singing along to R Kelly or the Flaming Lips at 5am (sorry about that, next door).

The Pie is pretty ecumenical about faith, as he is in most things; he asks a lot of questions, drawing ever closer to a conclusion, thinks aloud about everything, seeks the input of others into his decision making process. 'Mum, who do you love more? Leo, or God?' Thus, he is thoroughly transparent, a developmental psychologist's dream. A,B,C; X, Pie, Z. The Kong, however, is a thoroughly different kettle of fish. 

One day, he wandered into the kitchen, a funereal expression lying heavy upon his exquisite features. 'Mum. You don't love me.' Horrified, I dropped the potato I was peeling and knelt down, sweeping my darling into my arms. 'Kongie! No! How can you say such a thing? Of course I love you. I adore you, little boy. You are my beautiful little lamb.' Undeterred, he shook his head. 'No. You don't love me.' My heart was beginning to palpitate; I could feel my eyes stinging lightly and tears rising to the surface. 'No, Kongie...why are you saying that?' The huge, chocolate-brown saucers of eyes, rimmed with the longest eyelashes in Christendom, turned up towards me. Solemnly, seriously, the Kong addresses me. 'I said, you don't love me. We prayed in church for our parents who love us. I said, my mum, if she will love me, she gives me biscuits. You said, 'No biscuits Leo', so you don't love me.' 

QED, evidently. Kong has apparently - hopefully - missed the point of what was being taught in that session. I suspect this might have been the same session where this was produced: 

  

What?! 

What is it? I ask the Axis. Pie looks at me as if I am a pitiful imbecile. 'Mum. It is a rock. With 'God' written on it. Honestly.' He throws his hands up in exasperation, shakes his head and walks off. 

By now I am thoroughly perplexed. Is there some sort of new dogma being taught in church? Am I missing something crucial? 

I've never got on well with the language used in churches and other religious organisations, to be honest. I can't ever employ the stock phrases, can't describe faith as a 'walk with the Lord', can't 'just lift myself up to you in prayer, Father'; it feels a cop-out to speak unnaturally and yet pretend it is natural. I know it works for some people; as with everything I can't grasp, I'm happy for those that do and don't find it odd or offensive for others to use it. It's just, when I do, I feel as if God is going 'Oi! Stop showing off.' Consequently, when asked, one Sunday, to come to the front of the church and discuss a course I'd attended, I ended up giving the ringing endorsement of 'well, you might as well give it a go. You never know,' before sidling off to appease the Kong with some malted milks filched from the vestry.

A lot of my friends are very spiritual people, yet deeply opposed to organised religion. I can sometimes see why. It can seem that the focus is very much on the minor rather than the major; that the personal morality of the individual, the victimless choice, is of more concern to the body corporate than it ought be. It's something to be wary of, and can, sadly, limit how engaged we become in our faith. I can't help but feel jealous of these people for whom everything seems to make so much sense, who can make a choice and be perfectly assured of its consequences.

I stumble through life with a great deal of confusion, to be honest. It's often a surprise to me that I function at all, let alone that the Axis are fed and clothed and relatively clean. I feel keenly the disapproving looks flung at me and my wild children on Sunday mornings, as we're not quiet and calm and biddable like the other children. I'm fed up of fielding questions about my lack of husband and it annoys me that so many people think my sex life is more their business than their tax arrangements are mine.

Perhaps Sunday mornings will be better spent doing things with the boys, rather than telling them to be quiet and sit down the whole time. I remember my mum coming to a similar conclusion when I was a little older than the Axis. But then she was always a bit odd, too.