Oh My Valentine

Mildred was attempting to rescue her cat from the plane tree on the street outside of her house. It, like every other cat, was entirely capable of rescuing itself when it was good and ready, but it found Mildred’s efforts endlessly amusing. So it sat there. On a branch. Chortling to itself.

Finally Mildred, exhausted from waving a mop handle about in the lower branches and calling “puss, puss, puss,” until her lips were aching, took a break. She leant against the flaky tree trunk and was surprised to see, right in front of her, a man who looked like he had just stepped out of a romantic novel.

His name was Reginald, but everyone in Chortleton-on-Sea knew him as Reg the Romantic. He was Chorleton’s resident poet and self-proclaimed expert in true love. Reg, surprisingly for a love guru, lived on his own. He wrote poetry comparing his paramours to celestial bodies and was fond of ladies who swooned a lot and who, it seemed, often had eyes that resembled limpid pools.

It was Valentines day and he was in dire need of inspiration and so had gone for a walk.

As Reg was about to stroll past Mildred he felt, he thought, an invisible spark zap through the air between them. Certainly a pigeon paused in its endless quest for food. Mildred had clearly felt something too because at that very moment she turned and, from Reg’s perspective, swooned against a tree.

Reg, never one to miss a romantic opportunity, approached Mildred, raising his somewhat silly purple hat with a flourish.

"Greetings, fair maiden! I am Reg, a poet, and I believe fate has woven our destinies together in its grand tapestry of love."

Mildred, looked at Reg, held a hand in front of her mouth and burped. Silently, she cursed the purveyors of pickled eggs.

But Reg was undeterred. He produced a single red rose from his pocket and presented it to Mildred. "For you, my love, my Valentine. A symbol of our blossoming romance, like a host of golden Daffodils in the spring onion of our hearts."

Mildred eyed the rose with a raised eyebrow. "Well, that's very kind of you, Reg. But my pussy is having a crisis, and I don't think Sir Fluffington would appreciate being ignored while I put that in a vase.”

Reg, thinking he was on a winner, scrunched his eyes shut, clutched his purple hat to his heart with both hands and began reciting poetry that sounded like a cross between an unfortunate illness and a very, very long grocery list.

Mildred, meanwhile, looked up at her cat. Sir Fluffington. The cat, clearly unimpressed with poetry, wandered along the branch, jumped down into Mildred’s front garden and went into the house. Mildred swiftly followed, closing the front door behind her.

Finally, Reg reached the climax of his poem, flung his arms open wide and puckered up for the kiss he knew must follow.

After a moment or two he opened his eyes. His arms sagged down by his side. He picked up the rose that lay on the ground in front of him.

“Oh, my sweet Valentine,” he said, sadly, and continued his lonely walk.