The movie was fantastic plus it featured some kick-ass knitting to boot. As Pip's declaring his love and pouring his heart out to Estella - she is calmly knitting a sock next to the evil, wretched Miss Havesham, her needles flashing as she tells him she's marrying someone else. The small tiny gestures signalling how she's pierced and wounded his heart repetitively through the years. Must go back to the book to check if it was Dicken's idea (Knitting features in 'A Tale of 2 cities' that I know). What does that say about us knitters I wonder - we're femme fatales moulded to break men's hearts? Cool ice queens with the potential for good and light? In the 'Happily ever after' between Pip and Estella, I imagine her knitting and churning out socks and jumpers for Pip, the good old Joe Gargery and kind Biddy in contented marital bliss. (My eagle eyes also spotted the scarf that young Pip wears later reappearing around Herbet Pocket's neck... hmmmm, looked like a double-ribbed, worsted yarn CO 25 perhaps?)
But I can finally breathe now that all the tat is off the shop shelves and obscenely expensive dead roses aren't being sold on street corners. Funnily enough, there was one V. Day that actually did involve continuous projectile vomitting on my part. I'd long suppressed the memory just simply because it was so embarassing. (There's a great blog on Valentine's Day disasters).
My traumatic experience occured some years back when I should have known better - went with my shady boyfriend to a top-notch restaurant owned by a celebrity chef (all the alarm bells should have been ringing by then). We'd left it a bit late and therefore could only get an early table which meant we had to be done by half-9. The meal was so-so, far too over-priced for what it was and packed with couples trying to be intimate in what was esstially a canteen. Pretentious, urban chic trying to be coolly romantic - that description befitted the eatery and our relationship.
What ensued when we got back to my flat was the ultimate barf-o-rama, an orgy of puke - I chundered as I had never chundered before or thought humanly possible. At one point I thought my entire being was going to get flsuhed away - I was staring death in the face as I clung to the rim of my toilet bowl, peering down its watery, smelly depths with my glazed eyes. Each time my 'lover' tried to look at me to tell me how special he thought I was, I had to run to the toilet to empty my guts. It happened about 20 times the whole evening.... I think my body was wholeheartedly rejecting the whole tackiness of the evening's proceedings and was nauseated to the core.
Needless to say, that 'relationship' did not last - I'd always thought there was something insincere and shifty about the guy anyway but I'd been thrown off track with his oily charms. The moral of the story is to stick to nice and simple and ignore all the pressures to declare your love - it ain't no one else's business!