I can’t work Valentine’s Day out.
On one hand it is nice to have a day especially earmarked for romance.
But on the other isn’t it sad we need to book it in the calendar?
I guess I have always had a funny relationship with February 14.
Not because I have a thing for artificial red roses, painfully happy teddy bears or cheap chocolates.
But because it is my dad’s birthday.
So from a very young age I’ve been used to other people getting cards on that day.
Before you get your tiny violins out I am not looking for sympathy.
I can count the Valentine’s cards I’ve got on one hand – excluding those sent by my mum – and all but one has been awkward.
If I remember correctly the first was passed to me while in the girls toilet.
It’s envelope all crumpled and a little damp in one corner like it had been nibbled.
Having said that, it was from a boy in the year below me so it might well have been.
His surname was Bond. That’s pretty much where the excitement ended.
We’d met, only once, when I was spending my lunch in the library and he was there on detention.
It was never going to last.
Now forgive me if this sound a bit soppy – after all tis the season.
Whether it is a special someone, close friends or even family – love isn’t about the big gestures or things bought from Clintons.
It doesn’t have to be a special occasion, in fact it is often better if it is not.
It’s little notes in lunch boxes.
Sending you a picture of what they have had for tea just because they don’t want you to miss out.
And letting you use them to warm your feet.
Well I did say it was love.
Perhaps instead I should regards Valentine’s Day more as a reminder than a compulsory activity.
To just do nice things more often.
The feeling of having to do something always puts me off anyway.
No doubt my dad will agree with that.