My bloody Valentine

I’ve received two Valentine’s cards in my entire life. The first was from the woman who, to this day, is the most amazing I have ever met, in 1994. The feeling wasn’t mutual though, as her message made clear: ‘Boyfriends come and go – friends last for life.’ An admirable sentiment, but one that was sadly well wide of the mark; we lost touch within three months because she didn’t envisage our relationship developing in the direction in which I hoped it would. The last thing I heard, she was going out with a pig farmer called Norman (I kid you not).

The second was in 2004, from my girlfriend at the time. The relationship was going nowhere and I don’t remember anything about the card (although I’ve undoubtedly still got it somewhere) or whether we bought each other presents. But it did mark the only occasion that I have spent Valentine’s Day with a woman with whom I am not related.

As the mathematical laws of arithmetic progression dictate, my postman isn’t go to have anything to deliver on February 14 till 2014. The theory proved right this year, as I spent Saturday night shopping in Tesco and then sitting on my own with an Indian takeaway.

Before anyone feels too sorry for me, though, I would like to point out that I have sent only one Valentine’s card ever. So I have received twice as many cards as I have bought. Not a bad record, I think you’ll agree.