Tomorrow

Mr Smith and I had only been going out for a month, when Valentine's Day rolled around. As he should have, he sent me an obscenely large swag of red roses. The delivery man could not be seen behind the bouquet; it looked as if the roses had sprouted legs. Getting them though the door involved some careful manoeuvring, and ultimately, some shoving.

I was awfully happy; my friends were all hushed into jealous-stricken silence at the sight of the extravagance, which, as far as I can tell, is precisely the whole point to Valentine's Day.

The following year, I told him not to bother, as the occasion is an American vulgarism that really should not be encouraged.

Last February, hapless Mr P, incorrigibly single, announced he was 'seeing someone.'

"Valentine's Day is only a week away," I warned him, gravely. "I do hope you have the flowers already ordered. Florists will laugh in your face if you leave it any longer."
He looked stunned.
"Well, no. Valentine's Day is just, you know, commercialised nonsense."
I gasped.
"Oh, come on, Mrs Smith!" he said, "You say the same thing yourself."
"Well, of course I do. And it is. But for at least the first Valentine's Day with someone, you have to front up with goods. If you don't, you look like a cheap, clueless bastard."

He shook his head. He is a cheap, clueless bastard, but of course, this is exactly the kind of thing one tries to hide from one's dates. He is not good at this kind of subterfuge, which is precisely why he is permanently single.

"It doesn’t have to be flowers, but if you don't give her something that will make her friends eyes pop out with envy, the relationship will be over within a fortnight," I said.

He didn't. And it was.