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Emily Joyce: We'll always have: Paris

Week 6: I am a dead cert to win the office Valentine’s race ’til romance fatigue kicks in

Monday

AM. Ah, Valentine's week, and for the first time in my earthly existence I don't have to worry about it being cringe-inducing, awkward and soul-destroying. The reason? I have a hopelessly romantic fiancé. My enjoyment of this week is so in the bag that I almost feel embarrassed to make eye contact with my less fortunate female colleagues.

PM. As suspected, female co-workers have been accidentally-on-purpose brushing against me in the hope that some of my romantic fairy dust will bring them good luck.

Tuesday

AM. Ooh dear. In the secret, unspoken competition among women regarding who received the most romantic gesture for Valentine's, I have already won. In fact I should graciously remove myself from the running; it's what Usain Bolt would do at a primary-school egg-and-spoon race.

PM. Eimear from Accounts had the audacity to suggest that Owen's propensity for extreme romance may actually work against me. She says that he has peaked too early, and it would be nigh on impossible for him to regain his past form. Infidel!

Wednesday

AM. Eimear's cult of dissention is quickly gathering followers. She says that I will be bitterly disappointed no matter what he does because romance is all relative. This is what men complain about: the more romantic they are, the more romantic they are expected to be. It's like being a premiership footballer: you're only as good as your last goal or, in this case, your last romantic meal with pink Champagne.

PM. Have invited Owen around tonight, just to make sure that he knows that I am (along with the office females) expecting something spectacular on the 14th.

Thursday

AM. It's like Eimear has put the bloody mockers on me with her gypsy-like curse; it turns out Owen doesn't really like the 14th because he feels under pressure to perform. He thinks every day should be Valentine's because he loves me so much. Tried to calmly explain that EVERY DAY IS NOT VALENTINE'S, ONLY VALENTINE'S IS VALENTINE'S. Told him he should've been more prudent and kept some romantic fuel in reserve. I may have hurt his feelings.

PM. Eimear circulating; she knows something is afoot. She's like the kind of person who watches you while you're making tea and then tells you that the way you're squeezing your tea bag will make the bag burst and then it does, even though that's the way you've been squeezing the bag since the start of your tea-drinking career. If this were medieval times she would be burned at the stake.

Friday

AM. Brainwave.

PM. There, just spent the morning informing colleagues how my Owen and I shall be enjoying a romantic last-minute trip to a luxury five-star hotel in Paris. Ha! you should see the look on Eimear's face -- worth every penny of the €1,562 excl VAT!

Keep up with Emily's week on emilyjoycediary.wordpress.com


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