Valentine’s Day is dreaded by men and women. It’s contrived, so how can it ever live up to expectations. Mark was particularly vitriolic about it, ‘Commercialising humankind’s most profound emotion for dollars… It’s disgusting when you think about it.’ But as Hot Danish said, ‘I had to do something, even if I don’t believe in it or you would have been disappointed.’

I’d sent a text to Hot Danish at lunchtime, ‘Just popping out for lunch so don’t send flowers in the next hour ;-)’.
‘Don’t worry about it ;-),’ he’d replied. I was starting to get a little anxious. He had, after all, previously said every day with him is like Valentine’s Day.

I’d offered to cook and he was waiting outside when I arrived. His phone rang so he handed me the keys. I let myself in. ‘Sorry baby – was waiting for your present. They’ve sent it to the wrong address. I’m going out to get it,’ he texted. A few minutes later I realised I’d forgotten to pack my veggie option. I rushed out to the nearest Waitrose. I called HD en route to let him know; he was a 20-minute cab ride away, but was waiting on his doorstep with a pale pink, black-ribboned box when I returned.

The box contained a gorgeous black lacy lingerie set from Agent Provocateur and the card said, ‘For the sexiest girl, from the luckiest man. I love you.’ I suddenly felt my gift was childish (chocolate spread and liquid salted caramel sauce from L’artisan du Chocolat) and my card, simply saying, ‘You make me happy, love you loads’ hadn’t lived up to his. ‘I really enjoyed buying it,’ he said. ‘It made me feel grown up.’

We had dinner together, I tried on the underwear (which fitted perfectly) and the next morning I scrubbed caramel sauce out of my hair (there wasn’t time to wash it before work).