by Isobel Poltroon
I go out on Valentine’s Day to buy my cleaning lady a plastic bucket with a filter on top to squeeze out the mop. She’s worn out the old one, we’ve been together so long. The shop windows are a sickly mess of pink and red, somewhere between an abattoir and a little girl’s bedroom. The shops are full of men whose women set their price at a bunch of red flowers and a meal deal.