This might be the first time in my life, since boys started to be on my radar (circa 1849), that I kind of forgot about Valentine’s Day. Of course there is a little marketing to remind us, and I say that without a hint of sarcasm, but it really didn’t occur to me until today. It’s really not a massive holiday here, so there is minimal promotion – literally only a couple of restaurants and florists and the odd hairdresser and shoe shop (!) who make any kind of effort – as they have the much simpler celebration in April called Sant Jordi. This is the day that everyone exchanges books and roses and promenades in the most important streets of the city, which are filled with book and flower stalls. Imagine, you can buy a single stem rose and find an old copy of your favourite book and have a glass of wine, all for under €10. Because that’s the true meaning of love – cheap plonk. Really though, you should all move here. Oh, wait……. nope, sorry, slip of the tongue.

Sant Jordi isn’t solely the reserve of the smug loved-ups, either. Us perpetually single people are included too, and kids, and friends and it’s proper lovely, like. I’ve had roses from students over the years and noted the admiring glances of those poor unknowing souls who think they’re from a love. Bless.

So despite a touch of cynicism, in the spirit of the day, this year I decided to send some love in the shape of a fabulous card to a couple of fabulous women in my life, two I met through the medium Twitter and two of my oldest, best, single friends – because showing love doesn’t only have to be romantic. I love them with all my heart and we share a long or virtual relationship bound together by a not so rosy experience of the dating world/relationship/men…..

The card said, ‘Men Are Fuckers’.

Also, on a vaguely romantic note, last night was the last date of a three week dalliance with something kind of resembling the beginnings of a bona fide relationship. Miscommunication and a little ‘you said, no you said’ quickly escalated into a flounce out for a fag (him not me), a grabbing the cheque (me not him) and a quick peck on the cheek. I left him on that special raft, reserved for those ready to be sailed off to the island of lost men – along with approximately *adopts Mike Myers voice* one million others…. fair thee well good sir, it was nice while it lasted and the sex was, well…….. not bad.

These encounters seem to be getting shorter and shorter and in no time at all, I fully anticipate breaking some kind of record for the shortest relationship in history, since records began. My target is fifty-nine minutes.

At this rate, totally doable.