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Stupid Cupid
“I don’t understand why Cupid was chosen to represent Valentine’s Day. When I think about romance, the last thing on my mind is a short, chubby toddler coming at me with a weapon,” Anon.
On Feb. 14, love rules the airwaves and Hallmark rules the New York Stock Exchange. This so-called holiday brings back many memories, most of which would have been best left uninterred. The first time I fell hopelessly in love was with Trevor, a local cycling aficionado and chick magnet whose hair was so blond it was almost white. This god-like entity rejoiced in the nickname Omo, after a British detergent whose tag line was ‘Omo adds brightness to whiteness’.
Trevor was the epitome of 60s cool and would not have been seen dead in bicycle clips, those metal anklets beloved of village vicars, which were designed to protect trousers from getting caught in the bike chain. Instead, my hero wore drainpipe jeans and form fitting tops in black, with red stripes. Decades later, Trevor is toast and bicycle clips have given way to Spandex, which is a mixed blessing for the casual observer.
In my youth, romantic dalliances were severely limited, especially since I attended an all-girls convent school. Apart from Omo, who barely registered my existence, my list of potential suitors was sadly limited; among them was Colin Plum, whose chief attribute was that he was one of Omo’s closest friends.
Then there was the time I met two of my brother’s classmates, one of whom I fancied and his best friend, Phillip, who fancied me. One day Phillip called and my father answered the phone. When dad asked who was calling, my admirer, overcome with nerves, raised his voice a couple of octaves and tremulously replied, “Susan.”
I’m not sure why he thought my father would be shocked that a boy was calling me, but poor Phillip never lived his new name down and Susan and I never became an item. It was just as well, as he was a couple of inches shorter than me and a lot less good looking than his friend, whose name I have completely forgotten.
Another unlamented suitor was Jocelyn – seriously, that was his name – who lived across the road. He was irredeemably posh and appeared to have been parachuted in from Chelsea or Knightsbridge and forced to live among the hoi polloi. For some reason he found me as irresistible as someone from an exclusive private school can find an Essex girl, although the feeling was not mutual and I spent a lot of time hiding behind trees and walls to avoid bumping into him.
For a brief, shining moment, I caught the eye of Dave, ping pong champion of the church youth group, whose American-style crew cut and fresh-faced good looks also attracted the attention of my erstwhile best friend, the beautiful Veronica. Her determination to win him put paid to both my hopes of a relationship and my aspirations to become more proficient at ping pong.
In fact, it may have been a pivotal reason I gave up other sports to concentrate on the slow bicycle race. On the other hand, it is more likely that my complete ineptitude at anything remotely athletic was to blame. Then, as now, I hold fast to my motto: Let’s not get physical.
Eventually I met Mr. Wallethead who, with his suave and sophisticated demeanour, banished all thoughts of Omo, Colin, Jocelyn, Dave and Susan from my mind. His proposal of marriage took place outside the ladies’ loo at West Byfleet Cricket Club. Never was a girl more romantically wooed and won.
