Wednesday, 17 March 2010

I don’t do cards

And it is not just because I don’t like getting paper cuts on my knob, no, it is more than that.

I don’t like being ripped off, no, I don’t like being told that just because it is a certain date, it be deemed necessary to buy cards to signify something other than a million trees being wasted either.

Trees are for my log burner and weeing against at music festivals, not for cards.

I dislike the regimented nature of cards, for every event, but especially for things that aren’t birthdays.

Valentines is probably the most offensive to me, and was a big bone of contention in our annual calendar, as husband and wife, or as boyfriend and lady slave before that.

My argument, one I would reel out every year, was that if you don’t feel loved everyday, then our relationship is not what I want it to be, and something is wrong. Furthermore if you are pacified with the purchase of a card, making other behaviour acceptable, a la, ‘But he got me some lovely flowers for Valentines’ then you are not the woman I thought you were.

But, but, but suchandsuch has bought suchandsuch…………………………..

Well woopyfuckingdo for them, are they pre or post lobotomy?

This argument would then be tailored for other laminated cardboard inducing events.

I would compromise, and sometimes make cards, plus if there was an opportunity to take the piss, I could, and still can be, enticed into purchasing cards.

And also there are the occasions when I prefer to be a hypocrite than socially awkward.

The uninteresting thing about my broadcast philosophy is that people would still buy cards ‘for me’.

Yeah, it’s so for me, you get absolutely zero satisfaction from scratching the itch of protocol, nonwatsoeva.

This is very much a personal thing, and not one I enforce on others, and certainly not my boy.

All our family get cards from him, and on some occasions I get a card from both of us. He gets cards from me for all sorts of occasions and I get them back for all the traditional ones, and while I treasure them, make a note of when and how they were produced on the back, it is the impromptu stuff, stuff we sometimes make together, that I hold dearer.

I suppose as they signify real memories, and moments of great joy and satisfaction, rather than the robotic ones dished out willy-nilly because, as a race, we have got in the habit of ‘gifting’ them.

Answers on a postcard.

Peace out.