One day we’re so happy we’d laugh at whatever the world throws at us; the next day we’re so delicate, so very tender-spirited, that something small and unintended can send us into a spiral of despair.
This almost irrational comfort with extremes caused an historian of old to observe of the Irish that all of our wars were merry and that all our songs were sad. That historian however, did not record if we were natural romantics.
Tomorrow is St Valentine’s Day, and even if it is one of those flummeries more to do with commerce than sainthood, it might not be any harm — or too risky lads — to suspend our critical faculties for a few hours and embrace our inner Heathcliff (“I am surrounded with her image!”) or Cathy (‘Kiss me again; and don’t let me see your eyes! I forgive what you have done to me) and express our more noble feelings. It is, after all, just an opportunity for many of us to celebrate what is the very best thing in our lives. Go for it.