There's something a little strange about haters who say they're not moved by Valentine's Day. Who doesn't love love?
Well, Mr X doesn't. So best you not be planning a romantic getaway around February 14, when the man you're inviting is a humourless cynic.
This was my post-trauma advice from a former close friend, who has now been moved into the random-friend zone.
You see, I'm a hopeless romantic. I have a fervent belief that boundless joy stems from all things symbolically festive and decorative: like Christmas trees, and Santa Claus and Easter Eggs. And, of course, Valentine's Day.
Valentine's Day. Think presents and unsigned cards and surprises and red hearts and... well... LOVE. I thought Mr X would be blown away with my surprise.
People who know me will tell you that I'm given to big gestures. I'm a person who is extravagantly extravagant. My extravagance extends to glitzy, like an Indian wedding, often with too much razzmatazz.
I wish I were cynical like Mr X. I wish I was someone who laughed in the face of people who like Christmas. But I love weddings and bar mitzvahs and birthday parties and celebrations of almost any kind.
So, I booked a sea-facing room at a very upmarket hotel in another town (well, another country actually, and, just to be clear, a neighbouring SADC country).
I had the hotel staff put champagne on ice in the room and toss petals over the bed.
We were to arrive, after a flight and a two-hour drive, an hour before sunset. Perfect for standing on the balcony, a glass of bubbly in hand, holding hands, watching the sunset.I'd called the receptionist to ask her opinion (on a scale of 1 to 10, I said) of the romantic-ness of the room. Making sense of her Portuguese was hard, but in the end I thought she said Muito Romantico.
Then, of course, our hire car wasn't ready, Mr X refused to drive a class A dinky car because, he said, it had Marie-biscuit wheels. So we had to have an expensive upgrade.
We arrived long after the sun had set and Mr X couldn't see the point of getting this, the most expensive room in the place.
He moved the vase of red roses to a corner of the outside balcony - allergies.
I tried to say there was a wonderful view, and that I was paying so it really didn't matter what the suite cost and that he would see how lovely the view was in the morning.
But he walked around pointing to a frayed corner of the settee, a damp stain on the outer wall, the skew curtain rail.
Faded glory, I said, from another time, but still lovely, don't you think?
Five stars on other parts of the continent do not necessarily measure up to SA's five-star places. I don't mind that. Mr X did.
By now I was murmuring defensively under my breath, wondering why I'd spent half a month's salary on a romantic getaway with this boorish man.
The final straw was at dinner. I'd booked the (expensive) resident Mariachi band (I know, right? Mexican band in Portuguese hotel?) to sing two love songs at our table.
As they drew close, Mr X threw a hissy fit.
I must have looked mortified because the maître d' who'd winked and given me the thumbs up as we walked in, quickly moved the very expensive singers out of the room.
It was the shrug and pained pity look he gave me that did it.
I paid a very expensive surcharge to change the tickets and flew home.
That'll teach you to believe in romance, my now-random friend said.
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