The best was heart-shaped potato from the veg box

I DO not expect to find any St Valentine’s cards on the mat this morning.

It’s possible that it has happened, but I don’t remember ever receiving one.

After 61 years of wedded, er, weddedness, it’s not likely that Mrs R will suddenly come over all emotional, though you never know.

She did once give me a heart-shaped potato from the vegetable box.

I was sluffened. Who says romance is dead? As for the shy lady admirers just waiting to send secret messages, in your dreams, son. And not even there, alas.

But I’ll get by. What about the men who receive cards, or more likely these days, text messages, from unknown sources?

Partners can take offence mightily at anonymous XXs on your mobile phone.

Indeed, it has happened in the past couple of weeks to a good mate.

I hope the once-happy couple are back in each other’s arms by now.

Negotiations were under way, but where wounded feelings are aroused, it can be more difficult to heal the breach than to find peace in the Middle East.

St Valentine has a lot to answer for. He was a third century Roman priest, martyred for his Christian faith. Apart from being the saint of courtly love, he doubles up for beekeepers. Some will regret being stung by his devotees today, but the tradition is good for business.

Around 20 million Valentine’s cards are sold every year in the UK. And who buys them? 85% women. I could make some astringent remarks here, but my admiration for the fair sex forbids.

Oh dear, I’m sure I shouldn’t use that expression. What on earth can an old-fashioned man say these days without getting into trouble? Especially today.