although his height be taken...

I know that tomorrow is St Valentine's Day. But I'm blipping this today since I wouldn't like to be thought to be giving the festival any recognition. I read in today's "Scotland on Sunday" that the remains of St V are simultaneously in the Gorbals in Glasgow and in Dublin. This inconstancy suits the old fraud perfectly. He is a will of the wisp. He might have been

# A priest in Rome,
# A bishop of Interamna (modern Terni), or
# A martyr in the Roman province of Africa

or none of the above. St V was no more that an hook for Geoffrey Chaucer and his rum crew to hang a few legends on in 14th century England. How did we all manage to take on board such a gross piece of commercial flummery!

Oh his bones are also in Roquemaure near Avignon. There they celebrate La Fête du Baiser - which sounds a lot better to me. So forget all the cards and flowers and meals out and expensive nonsense, and just give someone a kiss.

The octet of Sonnet 116 ends with this very enigmatic line. My own take is that it is about latitude and longitude - but most say it is about the weight of the cargo. My idea is probably a little anachronistic though.....

Anyway - there have been, unarguably, a lot of wandering barks whose lives have been rooted by love.

So, it does deserve all the praise it can get. But forget the roses!

(Oh this poster was left behind by a daughter on her wall.....)