Outside Glasgow yesterday, as the bus pulled in at the airport, my beloved pointed out of the window at a sign poked into the hotel gravel.
“Valentines Disco/Dance, 8-late Monday 14 February”, it said, outside the Holiday Inn.
Unfortunately, our plane was due to have left by that point, so we weren’t able to go, but still, the image stuck in my head all evening. A Glasgow kitchen: A husband has handed over some flowers, and tells his wife that he has a special surprise in score. She looks at him, expectantly shimmering in her pinny.
“Happy Valentines day, darling! Get your gladrags on, we’re going to the Airport. There’s a Disco STROKE Dance at the Holiday Inn! Aye!”
My mental images of what happens then are wide and varied – sometimes involving anvils and frying pans – and amuse me greatly. But then, that may not be the case at all.
Maybe, as was my second suspicion, it IS all about people surreptitiously biffing their colleagues in airport hotels while no-one’s looking.