I am contemplating a long, lonely day in bed today, having called in sick with a sore throat. I read the papers with interest this weekend, carefully negotiating the ads for chocolate and ‘the perfect Valentine’s film’, which were interspersed with self-congratulatorally facetious bon-mots on the nature of Valentine’s Day. The Guardian Weekend puts it in the ‘Going Down’ section of their barometer, The Measure. Under the title ‘That Sodding Day’ they moan: ‘Look, we’re not saying anything, but its initials aren’t VD for nothing’. I have studiously ignored the numerous pop-ups and banners which bombard me every time I go online, entreating me to book the perfect dinner or mini-break and telling me where to buy the Agent Provocateur underwear or iPod Shuffle which will secure the love of the object of my affection (even though we all know that this love is actually procured, mainly through that person’s glee at being able to show off about how much was spent on them).

Like most single people, I was approaching the day with a fair amount of cynicism, although I was conscious of how intellectually lazy it is to dismiss it as a marketing gimmick. I believe I have more entitlement than most to be curmudgeonly today, as I got together with the man I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with last year on February 14th, and he said at the time ‘Isn’t it great that our anniversary will be on Valentine’s day?’ So the fact that we couldn’t even make it to the first celebration of our love, adds an extra, unwanted, resonance to this day, already full of the usual negative connotations for single people.

But when I woke up this morning, I decided that I actually don’t care. As I am not at work, I don’t have to worry about the public one-upmanship that receiving anything ostentatious is actually about on this day. And more importantly, having recently spent some time with said ex, and had a couple of honest conversations which came to the mutual conclusion that although we care deeply for each other, neither of us wants to be together, I find that I can’t muster the requisite amounts of bile with which to flavour a stream of curses denouncing this day for lovers. Instead, I find myself perfectly equable to the sight of couples holding hands and exchanging lingering looks, to the thought of them filling cards with messages written to be understood only by that one special person, even to the knowledge that they will probably spend far too much on disposable junk. Good for you. Love is great, even from the outside.

And I am also safe in the knowledge that I have a date for tonight. With my best friend, and stand in ‘lurve partner’. Who, knowing that I am ill, is planning a night in with good food, and who texted me this morning to say ‘Lonely hearts dinner partner offered for 1 night only! Vitriol and fine whine!’ I can’t wait…

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