Enforced love is a strange old thing. And, as we are all too aware, this is the week to do it. I remember standing in the phone box line at boarding school clutching my 10p piece. It bought me just enough time to hiss down the receiver Valentine card sending instructions… at my parents. There was no way I could risk leaving the whole shebang to chance, while some girls in my dorm would be counting double figures.

Of course, the choosing and sending of cards is always a joy. Inscribing them with my left hand (now less of a ritual) and showering those I fancied/admired/lusted after from afar was, without doubt, an entertaining game. But now, happily married with fully-fledged offspring, the whole day feels simply ridiculous. And, if I’m brutally honest, a bit of a chore.

So, there’ll be no bunch of a dozen red roses nor double-layer chocolate boxes for me. You see, strict instructions since the Millennium (the year we wed) will ensure of this. Nor little black dress date-night accompanied by a white tablecloth and silver service. Absolutely NOT. Instead, we’ll review a fancy restaurant with other Valentine strikers on 13th and hibernate the following day with a take-away and bottle of wine. How romantic that sounds...


You can read more musings from Emma at www.lifeofyablon.com.