Valentine's Day Massacre

Not the most original title, nor the most enigmatic, but needs must when Cupid does not, in fact, drive, and romance is not so much dead but lying squawking bathetically beneath the remains of the Big Mac meal your truly hopeless self has attemped to smother your feelings in.

Valentine's Day, another singularly joyless festival for those of us who remain freakishly unattached. This year, the rot truly set in last week at the Co-op when, attempting to simultaneously prise free a baguette that had become wedged in the basket, pack three large bottles of lactose-free milk in a string bag and maintain control of the Axis, who were setting about the teasingly leaning Malteser pyramid with alarming dexterity, I was asked if I'd like to buy a raffle ticket. A raffle ticket? At the Co-op? Is it now doubling up as a school PTA? Not bloody surprising, as long as Gove sticks around, I thought darkly. 'Erm...why are you selling raffle tickets?' The unnecessarily expansive lady at the till was, for once, silent, marking a great change in her demeanour from last time she tried to assist me with my shopping ('Ooooh, Chilli Chilli Bang Bang pizza. Lovely and spicy. What've you got to go with that then? Some lager? Lovely. And what's this...? Ah. Gentleman friend coming over tonight is he?'). Growing scarlet at the memory of the landlord's son, lurking in the queue behind me and whistling 'Something for the Weekend' as I'd grabbed my purchases and ran, I too said nothing but followed her gaze, which rested upon an hideous pink wicker hamper, stuffed to the brim with what was either the entire contents of Alastair Campbell's shredder or a year's worth of used hamster bedding. Dotted around the mouldering debris were a half bottle of extra fizzy Lambrini, two plastic champagne flutes, a packet of savoury rice cakes and some cheese with a scribbled-out sell-by date. Half a Flake was also sticking out, in the corner. I didn't dare look around at the vile Kong as I was pretty sure I knew what had happened to the other half.

'Valentine's hamper. For two,' she added, pointedly, nodding conspiratorially at me. I cleared my throat, but my voice still came out in a slightly ridiculous squeak. 'Erm. Well, I won't have one. I've...er...got no use for that, you see.' Her head cocked to the side in sympathy. 'Ahhhh. And with those two so small, as well. Well, you do very well,' she said confidently. I smiled and nodded, slightly dazed, wondering what had just happened.

What do I do very well? It isn't work, that's for sure. My peers are all shooting off into the career stratosphere, while I, emphatically, painfully, am not. I am a lousy parent, always trying to sneak ways of escaping from the Axis and being mean to and about them. My house will never be burgled, because anyone looking in through the windows could quite confidently assume we'd been done already. I'm unfit, I like drinking far more than I should, I never have any money and I am exceedingly grumpy. Yep, why I'm still single is beyond me.

On the blessed day itself, I am recovering from a hangover induced by accidentally consuming the entire contents of Miss Whippy's spirit cupboard the night before while the Axis were at their dad's. (Miss Whippy is an ice cream maker of some repute, and a good friend of mine, whom I won't shame by naming). It had been some time since we had seen each other, and in the ensuing enthusiasm of reunion,  we had discovered that a rum and ginger beer sorbet went well with port, tequila, red and white wine and pomelos. The following morning, both close to death, Miss Whippy presented me with a gift. 'For you. Happy Valentine's Day,' she added, handing over two bags of milk chocolate eyeballs and a soap that looked like a goldfish. I was touched.

Several years ago, when we had first started going out, Daddio had very nearly disgraced himself by turning up over an hour late to our very first Valentine's Day dinner together. When he did finally show, I was pretty livid, even more so when he refused to explain himself. I supposed that he had gone for a couple of thoughtless lunchtime beers with a chum and inconsiderately missed his train. Somehow, we got through the meal, although I spent most of it planning exactly how I was going to chuck him. When we were leaving, he stopped me, told me to wait a minute, and ran back inside, returning with a large box. I was mystified. What on earth was going on? He handed it over, and told me to open it. Inside was a beautiful handmade teapot that we had seen in a shop in Bath the week before. I had admired it, as teapots are to me what shoes and jewellery are to most women, and, sighing over the hefty price tag, had left it. Daddio, who lived in Reading at the time, had got the train to Bath to get the teapot, but when he arrived, couldn't find the shop, spent most of the afternoon walking around trying to find it, and then, when he did find it, found it closed. He had had to ring the owner and beg her to turn up to sell it to him, just so that he could get back on the train to Bristol and give it to me. That was why he had been late. The teapot was beautiful and I was overwhelmed by the effort Daddio had gone to to get it for me. What a wonderful token of love.

Last week, the spout fell clean off and smashed.

Ah well. The Axis and I climbed Cabot Tower and looked out over the city. As they chattered and giggled and harangued the pigeons crapping overhead, I realised, fondly, that my two little cherubs are far better than any amount of hearts and flowers and romantic claptrap. That's love. That's what St Valentine was all about.

Happy Valentine's Day to all.