I vividly remember sending my first Valentine. Her name was Pamela
and I was in love. I was about seven.
I walked to school and back every day – not very far. Crossed the
road, down the traffic free lane and then over another road to school.
Five or ten minutes depending on how keen I was. There were quite a
few people who used the lane to get to school and one of them was
Pamela.
I don’t know how it started but we would talk sometimes. No deep and
meaningful conversations, but she was nice to me and I liked that,
plus she was pretty, with long dark hair.
So come Valentines day I drafted my Mum as a co-conspirator. I had no
idea where she lived but Mum did, so she delivered my carefully
prepared anonymous Valentine, no doubt expressing my true feelings
with acronyms like SWALK and HOLLAND.
Walking up the lane on Valentines day I was a picture of nonchelance
(or at least I was in my head) as I asked her if she had received any
Valentines cards.
She told me that she had and I, sure of my secret, asked her if she
knew who it was from.
“I think it was from you” she said, at which point my imagined
nonchelance shattered, resulting in a red face, unconvincing denials,
and an increased pace up the hill.
I don’t remember talking to her after that, although I’m sure I did,
and I’m fairly sure that summer she moved on to secondary school and I
never saw her again.
I was about seven and she was about twelve. Apparently I had a thing
for the older woman.