I am possibly the worst Valentine ever. Which is funny to me, because I tend to think of romanticism as my forte. I'm starting to think now that this was only because in the past I've been the one making the effort, so obviously nothing compared to something seems like a lot and therefore any faux pas could be excused. But now that the level of my own romantic tendencies has been measured against those of a gentleman well versed in the ways of heartfelt gestures, my personal ranking seems to be slipping.

Of course my valentines folly was unintentional. Terrible time management skills and an inclination towards procrastination, coupled with what I am now concerned may be fits of narcolepsy are the real culprits. If Valentines day was judged upon how much you adore your beloved, or how well you wanted the day to go, or how grandiose the plans in your head were; then there would be no blog post today and I would be basking in the afterglow of my most favourite Valentines day yet.

As it stands, I am racked with guilt for being an hour and fifteen minutes late for my date, turning up with a very sad excuse for a cake and then promptly falling asleep once dinner was finished. This is clearly terrible behaviour and I would fully expect to be punished by the love gods for my misbehaviour if this were any ordinary day and any ordinary date. But when my misdemeanours fall on Valentines day - the one day you're supposed to get it right on, and when the boy on the receiving end of my folly has put days of effort into making everything just right,  lets just say that I will not be surprised if February 14th will from here on out will mark the death of romantic gestures in our relationship.

To give you a feel of the amazing night that was prepared for me, here's some pictures...

Delicious Quebec French toast with thickened cream and berries

                                             My attempt at Bakerella's cake pop candy box

My make-up dinner. Read: pathetic grovelling.

Before + After

Veerrryyyy interesting methinks. I don't particularly think either is better or worse, just interesting. Food for thought; next time you're feeling shitty while flicking through a magazine... you just never know what the original photo actually looked like to begin with. How many tattoos/birthmarks/freckles/spots did they pay someone phenomenal amounts to remove...?