7am - My alarm begins to squark with a level of annoyance usually reserved for perky colleagues trying to sign me up for team sports.
To avoid facing the day, I scroll Instagram looking for distraction in the form of news updates or pictures of old high school acquaintances disguising their MLM schemes as #newproject #girlboss.
Instead, my feed is groaning under the weight of gushy couple selfies, all accompanied by a range of imaginative captions along the lines of “the boy did good” and “I think I’ll keep him”.
All penned by the same women who just days earlier were bemoaning the fact that these “boys” had forgotten to pick them up from work/refused an urgent request to buy tampons/left her dog outside in the rain resulting in Tuppy being placed on strong sedatives to combat her newfound PTSD.
Unfortunately, this heightened level of social media fiction can only mean one thing…
It’s Valentine’s Day.
8am - I have five minutes before my train is about to leave as I rush toward my local cafe, desperate to snag a coffee to see me through the morning.
(Well, I say “coffee” but it’s actually a Mocha, the drink of choice for women who have unresolved issues with their childhood).
I slam open the cafe door and it makes instant contact with the back of a man’s head. Knocking him forward and forcing him to tongue kiss the overpriced artisanal stack of avocado, halloumi, and bacon on the table before him.