My Funny Valentine

Today I manged to prise myself from the haven that is my pillow-strewn, double bed before the crack of noon. A momentous event, the like of which has not been seen in weeks owing to my inimitable laziness and lack of self-discipline. The reason for such gargantuan effort on my part was that my friend Martina had secured us tickets to the rehursal of the Royal Ballet's new programme which started at 11.30. I haven't been to the ballet in approaching forever, which is sad because it has to be one of my very favourite ways in the whole world to spend an evening (provided there is champagne post-performance, without champagne it drops from 'favourite ways to spend an evening' to merely 'a lovely night out'). The show was just heartbreakingly gorgeous and I loved that the audience seemed to comprise entirely of old ladies with giant handbags and moth-eaten fur coats that looked like they might well be heirlooms - clearly the only people other than Martina and myself that had no work to attend and a yen to watch ballerinas leap.

Watching the dancers today filled me with a million ideas for a new show that I'm working on for a night I'm going to be putting on for Valentines Day with my friend Roxy Velvet. To be honest, I hate Valentines. Really always have, and that isn't the ranting of a bitter old witch (although I'm probably only a couple of cats short...). Even when I had a long-term boyfriend on Valentines Day and was therefore forced by Hallmark to be affectionate, I never really got into it. My favourite Valentines Day of all time was when my ex and I bought each other drugs instead of cards, turned our phones off and got fucked up and fucked for 24 hours. Romantic? I think not, but undeniably more entertaining than being stuffed into an overpriced restaurant with fifty other couples who also couldn't think of anything more entertaining to do...

But I digress. I've been dithering about my Valentine's show for weeks until today when inspiration struck at the ballet. Normally most of the routines I perform are flirty, tongue-in-cheek and rather cute (for want of a better word) little pieces and I suppose I'm rather bored of this persona I've created for myself. I want to push Kitty to somewhere she hasn't been before. My idea thus far had been to do some sort of balloon-busting act with red heart-shaped balloons. Nothing I haven't done previously if I'm entirely honest, but I can be terribly lazy when it comes to thinking up new material. The audience generally want you to skip around a bit then tassel twirl. Do that, they clap, job's a goodun'. But this Valentines show will be the very first burlesque evening that I have helped to bring about and I suppose for that reason I actually (whisper it) care about the act that I will be performing. Also more prosaically, all my mates have promised to come and most of them haven't seen me perform before. I am shitting it.

So, in the spirit of my Valentines Day hatred, drumroll please......... I'm going to 'Kill Cupid'. I plan on starting dressed up as the little be-winged bugger - all festooned with hearts and flowers, brandishing my bow and arrows. I'm going to flit around the stage en-pointe to the strains of 'Cupid, draw back your bow...' and then I'm going to become disillusioned with the whole notion of love, produce a knife and hack my wings off. Feathers and blood everywhere. Brilliant! Obviously I need to work on the finer points of how the piece will work as a whole, but I like the concept. That I enjoy the notion of Cupid ripping his own wings off, speaks volumes about the tatters that my love life regularly finds itself in. Although, for the first time in a while, I do actually have a boy in tow. That fact that he also has a girlfriend in Russia is a matter of concern but not, it has to be said, a primary one. When I mentioned the Valentines night to him, he asked if he could attend. I think I may exclude him on the grounds that a) he probably should spend his evening on skype talking about vodka or whatever it is a 30 year old English man talks to a 23 year old Russian about. Ahem. and b) I'm not sure I want him to see me ripping my own wings off with gusto while flashing a blade around. It might make me look both bitter about love and a teensy bit mental...

Besides, I figure Valentines Day events must work slightly like weddings. In so much as all the couples feel smug and all the singles copulate furiously in the bathrooms to reassure themselves that while they might not be married, they're still attractive alright? My theory may come to nothing but a girl has to keep her options open, but not in the bathroom you understand. That was hyperbole.