Valentine's Day is one of those relationship danger spots for me. (Birthdays, Bank Holidays and weekends are pretty high on the list, too).
Having lived with a female for some considerable time, I've learnt to take nothing that is said to me purely at face value. In fact, I'm sure that when confronted with the phrase "Let's not bother about it", a lot of men would have some sort of contingency plan in place for when the exact opposite proves to be the case.
(I painfully learned this lesson one year when "Don't bother about my birthday" was the stated plan. And having foolishly taken that utterance literally, I recall at one point deeming it necessary to hide out in the shed for a while, wishing that I could lock it from the inside...)
Once upon a time, I would have been delighted to receive a Valentine kiss from the lovely Kirstie Alley. But if the rage of a left-wing agnostic liberal can drive a man to cower in his toolshed for an hour, imagine the wrath of a right-wing Scientologist scorned.
No wonder Leonard Nimoy looks worried...
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