It's the time of year for hearts, flowers and blog entries denouncing the prominence of hearts and flowers on V-Day. A few days ago, I read an article in that vein by regular New Paper columnist Ivy Ong-Wood which prompted a moment's reflection. It was about a couple she knew who were getting divorced before their 3rd anniversary.

Apparently "marriage killed all romance", where Romance = sending her flowers + taking her to nice restaurants + champagne on private yachts.

Ivy's idea of romance was more mundane, found in everyday actions like her husband going out at 2am to buy kway teow soup for her. That's not far off from my parents' own philosophy; every day is Valentine's Day for them. (Aww... so gross) Once, we were in Paris standing on the steps of the Sacre Coeur on Montmarte Hill, overlooking arguably one of the most romantic views in Europe. I asked them, "Isn't this romantic?" And my father replied, "Yes but your mother and I can be romantic anywhere." (Aww... ew gross)

Turning back to my own relationship, I think if I asked Jamie to go out and buy a specific, hard-to-find dish like kway teow soup, he'd probably tell me to go stuff myself or snack on something healthy like fruit instead since I'm always complaining about being fat. Come to think of it, getting your boyfriend to fetch food for you in the middle of the night seems to be a remarkably Singaporean characteristic. One memorable example of this is a piece of gossip I heard concerning a SGean boy who went to Oxford and was so pussywhipped by this SGean girl he fancied that he would ride his bicycle for miles into town during winter, at night, in the dark, to the MacDonald's just to satisfy her craving for a burger. His name was Philbert, by the way, which might explain things a bit.

Don't get me wrong though, I like romantic gestures, flowers and diamonds as much as the next girl. Especially diamonds. But at the risk of sounding smug, I don't need any of the above from my boyfriend as proof of his love because I already know he loves me.

Here, I'll count the ways:

1. Moving Out For Me

He basically moved all 8 boxes of my stuff into storage at his house for me. Of course I helped but he did most of the heavy lifting.

2. Letting Me Crash In His Room For 3 Weeks During Exams

We didn't fail though.

3. Finding A Flat For Us

Walking around viewing flats in the London chill until his feet blistered and he got the flu. Just so I could spend chinese new year with my family.

4. Moving In For Me

Moving all my boxes into the new flat from his home which is 3 hours drive away on treacherous snowy roads.

5. Braving My Parents + Making Them Like Him

Convinced them that he wasn't a despicable ang moh out to deflower and exploit their innocent daughter.

6. Learning Some Chinese

He has learnt the words

Shark
Enemy
Cockroach
Danger
and
Vampire

He also speaks a bit of Singlish.

7. Resigning Himself To The Fact Of Bolbol

'Nuff said.

No one bothered to tell me that she'd been removed. Suddenly, I have to deal with all the Valentine's Day reservations myself. Oh gee, thanks. Tomorrow, I'll have about 5 hours to know the menu back to front, call and confirm with 14 people and assign tables.

Yes, it'll be easy (it's an eternity of 5 hours for god's sake) but what annoys me is that the most fun bit, labelling tables, has been taken away by my bar manager because he says it's unprofessional. Hahaa, so damn many things about the place can be considered unprofessional that I don't know why he's making noise about this.

Then again, it's also probably because he doesn't trust me enough to do it decently. Not for all my parchment, fountain pens, german nibs and indian ink.

With her gone, I'm back to being a door bitch. I'm paid to stand around and wait for people to walk past, or seat customers, which sounds like a good deal yes? Hahaa. I'd much rather be writing an essay or doing someone else's homework. Hell, I'd be happy in a corner, beta reading the chef's reports.

It's a damned good thing I'm only here til university.

Come home past midnight. Munch on leftovers. Watch half a movie and polish off half a tub of ice cream. Write notes for family members, because I don't get home early enough to talk with them. Chat online with people half way across the world, because the time difference is just right.

I like work. But having so little time left for anything else, is driving me mad. The following is a random thing that's been floating in my head. Work gives me strange ideas.

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No pressure, just guilt. Yes, your hair is too long for wax but I still love to run my hands through. Scratchy kisses, can't leave a mark. Fogged glasses, will they notice? Soap and a sigh, watching the blue grey patterns from your Marlboroughs fade.

I almost wish for you to leave, would that make me feel better or worse? I think, at least I won't wake up screaming.

Southern Comfort and sangria, with cake on my birthday after hours. That really made up for the horrible one last year, wish everyone had wonderful colleagues like mine!

19! I don't want to get any older!

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Why are you feeding me bullshit? Really, I may be young but please don't insult my intelligence. I know you flambouyant lying types, along with your wives and kids! I have nothing for you, so stop with the leverage! Oh, and get out of my head please. It does hurt.