Carol’s Column

Who said Valentines were soppy?

FAT, pink, frilly and a metre high, it arrived at the front door. A Valentine card, not my mother-in-law.

We were having breakfast when the postman, a haddock of a man with poor breath and flat feet, knocked on the door.

He was weighed down by a large cerise envelope. Strategically placed, across the sealed back was scrawled "Sealed with a loving kiss".

He handed it to me.

"Having a bit of a razzle are you?" He leered through the door, observing the happy, early-morning sight of a typical family breakfast.

The head of the family sat, surrounded by his greater and lesser egg-stained, clone-like children in varying shapes and sizes.

Jamie'd built a snap, crackle and pop dam out of honeysnaps, for the milk he'd spilt in the crack in the table.

Ralph's buttered toast had slipped through his sticky fingers and attached itself to the knee of my husband's lightweight, successful-executives, beige Savile Row suit.

He was not happy.

Neither was Ralph who objected vociferously to eating fluff-lined toast.

Although I did not look my debonair best, I'd cast off my curlers and candlewick dressing gown and brushed my teeth and curls. And was ready to meet the day, fluoride flashing.

Amid snortles and sniggers, I opened the card.

It was quite splendid.

A grinning cherub frolicked on the cover, peeping from a shocking-pink mattress-quilted background.

There were bows and frills, plus a dainty halo made of delicate white lace.

Inside was the tender rhyme: "You are the pip in my cherry ... signed ?"

The card caused a sensation. My family were intrigued, fascinated and amused.

"Super," said my daughter.

"Soppy," said my son.

I was enchanted.

Who said every middle-aged housewife fantasises about a secret and dashing lover to come and sweep her out of her everyday, humdrum existence?

It's true.

For years I've dreamt about a Prince Charming, who owns an island or two in the Bahamas, a 75 metre yacht called "The Carol", various sumptuous establishments throughout the world, his own jet and an endless supply of money to keep me in a style to which I could well become accustomed.

And now, perhaps I'd found him.

I looked at my own home-grown dreamboat, sitting swilling orange juice with the best of them.

Ah well, that's the stuff dreams are made of.

I quivered my way through the day, watching, wondering who could be my secret admirer.

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It could be anyone.

I imagined myself sizzling in a sauna with John Heinrich, alone on a desert island with Stephen Grenfell and 500 king-size oysters, locked in a cricket-bat closet with Clive Rice, sipping caviar through a wide straw with Robert Kirby, or wearing diamonds and nothing else, clinging to a madly dashing Harry Oppenheimer as we galloped away on one of his sleek race horses.

My mind boggled.

While buying a headless, tailless hake for supper I dreamt of champagne and smoked salmon.

Caught in the lift scheme turmoil — two figures, entwined, strolled along a silvery, moonlight beach in my mind.

And whenever I caught sight of that magnificent card, I clicked my false teeth into place and smiled secretly.

Romance was in the air.

Reality was ugly.

The pup messed on Barry's blazer, the wash-basket erupted, spewing forth piles of smelly underwear.

The plants shrivelled and died, the toilet blocked and Ralph cracked his new dental plate.

The stove caught fire when the oil for the fried fish leapt out of the pan, my car had a flat, the cat hurled on the diningroom table and I split my jeans in the supermarket.

It was a typical day with St Valentine getting lost in the deep freeze with the dog mince.

But to sustain me, I had the memory of that wonderful card and a hidden admirer lusting for me from romantically afar.

That night, I greased my face, elbows and knees with Wrinkle-goze, gargled, massaged my scalp and finger pads, switched on the new smell-free, electric mosquito repellent and shut my eyes to dream about the mystery sender of my Valentine card.

The torn envelope in the waste-paper bin caught my eye.

I pulled it out. That's strange, I thought to myself — my name's not Miss Lil Walker.

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