Sometimes the work we do is beautiful and helps reunite families and loves, heal wounds, and find lost heroes. Today, it felt like we were the custodians of secrets we didn't need to know. Why didn't I stop looking for the Ryan in our letter when Oliver suggested it? I am sure we would have got there eventually, but perhaps I wouldn't have to know such a terrible truth today.
A good man, that rare human, an honest politician, did a stupid thing as a young man. He took responsibility, made something of his life after such a terrible stumble, and we now have knowledge that could destroy his life. Generally, all Valentine's Day are bad. This one is shaping up to be the worst.
Speaking of having the worst Valentine's Day – poor Norman! I was really worried for him, and for Rita, so I called her, to let her know that Norman knew about her press conference. Apparently, I was too late, and he have already called. Sweet, naïve Rita had been really thrown by the photo and tweet outing her relationship with Norman. I get it, and I think they will be okay, but Rita knows that she has some explaining to do when she gets home. We kicked around some ideas, and I have to say, what she is planning is pretty epic. I even managed to get her an earlier flight, so we shall see what happens. If any couple deserves happiness, it is Rita and Norman.
But not me, apparently. I am going to admit to doing something of which I am not at all proud. Before setting out on a run, I googled Oliver's address. I know, it was not mature or professional! Then I made it worse. I varied my run to take me to his house. What was I expecting to find? Oliver absent, on a date with some unknown woman? Or worse, at his house enjoying a meal with …? The reality was somehow even more devastating than my imaginings.
Oliver was home. He was listening to music and drinking wine, alone. What did that mean? That Oliver would rather do nothing quite alone, rather than spend time with me? Why was I so stupid as to run past his house? I have to admit, that hurt my heart.
I think I have learnt something about myself today. Okay, I probably already knew this, but today solidified the issue. I should never be allowed to access the internet or my credit card when I am feeling upset. Devastated women and designer shoe outlets are a bad combination. I am now the proud owner of a stunning pair of Charlotte Olympia painted patent leather platform pumps. (try saying that three times quickly.) Festooned with fruit and flowers, these babies are a mere 5 ½ inches high and completely impractical, but absolutely gorgeous. I am also the owner of Christian Louboutin tri-colour leopard print sequined pumps that clock in with mere 4 ¼ inch high heels. A girl can survive on pot noodles until her next pay check right? I refuse to consider the fact that no one (okay, I mean someone) will never see them.
I also should not be allowed to google when depressed. I did begin with pure intentions, researching what would be expected in a vintage Valentine from the mid-1800s. I took a little crash course in style, techniques, and materials. Then, I got a little side-tracked. Vinegar Valentine's are a thing. Apparently, not only sweet and sappy cards were posted, but also funny or just mean Valentine's also were delivered.
I wonder, diary, which is worse? Receiving nothing, or receiving this?
Tis a lemon that I hand you
And bid you now 'skidoo'.
Because I love another –
There is no chance for you!
Who deserves it? Lester? Steve? Holly? Me?
I have a horrible feeling it's me.