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Tales from the 'life is like this' collection

St.Valentine's day - Pensioner Style

Now let's get this straight from the start - I hate St.Valentine's Day. Or more to the point, I hate what St.Valentine's Day in Britain has become - no more than an excuse for rank commercialism and greed with little of the original significance left.

Take a walk through any town in the week leading up to February 14th, and the evidence is there for all to see - tatty plastic hearts draping nearly every shop window, extortionately priced bunches of flowers in heart shaped wrapping stuck in buckets, whole sections of greeting card shops devoted to The Day, blackmailing you to buy for wife/husband etc - confectionary counters heaving with rich St. Valentine's Day chocolates - the list is endless.

Every business seems to get in on the act. Travel agents offering that romantic break, book shops flogging bodice ripping novels and jewellers showcasing their most expensive rings. Romance at a very big price.

So, what went wrong? Can anyone remember those pre-commercialised times when this event was actually awaited with real heart.stopping anticipation?

Well yes, I can. The idea was simple. On the day itself, hearing the postman arrive you would rush to the door fervently hoping that a card from an unknown admirer might drop through the letterbox. Yes, unknown. And that was the whole point of a Valentine, the sender had to be unknown! It meant that out there was a young boy or girl whose identity, as yet a mystery, fancied and desired you from afar - a delicious thought!

The card of course, was never signed - a name would have totally spoilt the sweet intrigue. (This day was not designed for mature committed people who had already made their intentions clear in a relationship- just the opposite, and that was the sheer joy of it!). Proudly, the card would have been taken to school and shown to friends. Did they get one? Did they know whom it was from? Not get one? Then try harder to impress next year!

And that was it, no flowers or treats, just the suggestion of future romance. Trying to unmask that anonymous admirer was a pursuit that lasted for days or even weeks afterwards. Magic! Strolling around town on this St.Valentine's Day, I skilfully avoided looking at the crammed hearty shelves. And then somehow, suffused by a feeling of bonhomie I thought of my husband of forty three years and wondered what I would get him if I did subscribe to this orgy of bad taste. The answer was in front of me, or rather the smell.

I happened to have stopped outside a BAKERS OVEN shop, and the aroma of fresh pastries wafted outside and into my nostrils. Immediately I knew what to do. Forget flowers and chocolates - I would purchase his favourite, a Jumbo sausage roll. No connotation with St. Valentine whatsoever!

I cycled home, and proudly thrust the pastry into his hands. He flushed with joy. I couldn't have done better - ten out of ten! He sank his dentures into its flakiness and sighed.

That sausage roll said it all, it didn't need to be heart-shaped.