Romance

A lot of people seem to have spent their romantic Valentine’s Day weekend arguing with one another.

Mark had a couple in his taxi who were fighting so hard that he stopped and chucked them out. He told them that there was a limit to his interest in other people’s sexual inadequacies and that they could discuss them further as pedestrians. Also they were punching one another, which is always a bit distracting whilst you are trying to drive a taxi.

I am not surprised that people argue. It is so expensive to spend Valentine’s Day in the Lake District that our visitors must all be beside themselves with pecuniary anxieties even before they get charged twenty five quid for their taxi home. One couple told me that their hotel had cost just over a thousand pounds for the two nights. It wasn’t one of the nicest hotels either, and breakfast wasn’t included. 

I have spent a full board week in the nicest hotel in Disneyland with the children for that price, although admittedly it was some time ago. For a thousand pounds I would have expected to be able to take room service home with me afterwards. I think in their place I would have pretended that Valentine’s was a week later and come then, when it was cheap, but it could be that I am not a romantic sort of soul. 

In fact I find the whole Valentine thing very difficult to understand. I can see absolutely no point whatsoever to a date in the calendar when I am expected to drivel on embarrassingly about how much I love my partner, who jolly well ought to know anyway. Most certainly I would be very cross indeed if he blew a thousand pounds on an overpriced hotel room in the Lake District, even if it did have a hot tub. The whole teddy bears and red roses thing makes me shudder with offended dignity, and cards just need dusting for a week or two until you can decently use them to light the fire.

Under those circumstances you will not be surprised to learn that I have not had very many Valentine’s cards during my lifetime. There has, actually, been the odd one from Mark. This usually happens when he is feeling guilty about something. 

I didn’t get one this year, which suggests that he has forgotten about the solar panel. 

There was one spectacularly embarrassing year during my youth when somebody sent me some black stockings, which I inadvertently opened in front of my mother. I had no idea who the sender might be, and never found out. I was not sure if I was pleased or not. The stockings were nice, and came in handy when I laddered my tights, but it was a bit peculiar to think that somebody had imagined me wearing them.

Obviously it was a very long time ago. It would be a lot more peculiar to think that somebody was imagining me wearing stockings these days. Please do not trouble yourselves with distressing images. I wouldn’t wear them anyway, there is nowhere to tuck my vest in. 

In fact this year the dress code of choice seemed to be badly-fitting leather-look trousers, because practically every girl was wearing them. This made them all walk very carefully indeed on their tottery high heels, in case of splitting misfortunes. We watched them and wondered if perhaps Tesco had been selling them for a fiver and had positioned them very visibly next to the milk. 

It was not a magnificent success for a lot of people, despite their lavish spending. Quite apart from the exciting weather, which made the main Lake District occupation of going out for a walk seem less than attractive, I eavesdropped on lots of arguments, some of them potentially terminal. 

I had one tragedy in my taxi at about midnight. One of the door staff from the pub marched across with a tearful Barbie lookalike, and asked if I would take her home. I demurred and explained that I was not the first taxi in the queue, but they were adamant that she wanted a female driver.

I have got no idea why this happens. People have this idea that they will be safe from all kinds of abuse because I am a girl, which, frankly, is about as mistaken as it is possible to be. I have got no more scruples than any other taxi driver, and a lot less than some, because I have been doing it a lot longer and have learned ruthlessness from experts. 

When it turned out that she was going to Ambleside, which is miles away, I stopped trying to discourage her and shamelessly jumped the queue, making triumphant gestures at the other drivers as I passed them.

It turned out that her boyfriend had been arrested for having drugs in his pocket. Hardly any drugs, she sobbed, and he was such a nice chap.

I was not terribly convinced. Our local police force do not have the time or the real estate to lock up everybody with drugs in their pockets, so he must have either been dealing or fighting. 

I suggested that she might take advantage of the peace and quiet to watch a film without any car chases and to have an undisturbed bath, which is what I would have done.

She sobbed even louder.

She did not have their room key, or the car key, which latter did not really matter since she couldn’t drive anyway. She did not have any money, or a bank card, and could not even go into the bar and buy herself a drink.

I told her that I was entirely sure that the hotel would have taken an impression of her boyfriend’s credit card, and that she could just run up a bill on that, which is also what I would have done, with any luck he would have made enough money to pay it by selling his drugs before the police caught him. The night porter would probably have a spare room key, and the police would probably let her boyfriend out in the morning.

I do not know if she took me up on any of these suggestions. She got out and staggered miserably into the hotel, leaving me marvelling at such colossal helplessness. It is all very romantic to be whisked off your feet until you get dropped in a puddle.

On the whole I think I prefer to stand on my feet, even on Valentine’s Day.

Especially on Valentine’s Day. We had a jolly good one. We sloshed up and down through the floods even after all of the other drivers had been rained off and gone home, and tomorrow we will be able to pay the mortgage, despite the awful weather.

We think that we have probably come out of it rather better than most.

Windermere has just been voted Most Romantic Place To Be In The UK.

Have a picture of it.