Having been shown to our table we found a single red rose placed over the gold ‘Valentine's’ menu. It was just on the right side of tasteful, though I had to admit I still felt a little bit squeamish, especially because there seemed to be very few other Valentine's couples in the restaurant. The two men sat beside us (who also had a rose) didn't appear to be lovers, more like mates who hadn't been able to find girlfriends and so had acquiesced to homosexuality for the evening. They wore fleeces and didn't say anything to each other throughout the meal, though I noticed one of them took the rose and the menu with him when they left. As a couple, my girlfriend and I were more conspicuous, being dressed up for the occasion and prone to hazy, lingering glances across the table.

I had tried very hard this time around. Last year I had taken my girlfriend to the pub, bought her a pint and generally refused to rise to the occasion. This year, however, it was all to be different. Back at college, my room was unnervingly tidy and littered with scented candles that I had bought in bulk from Tesco the night before. I was going to come into my own as a strong, enigmatic, silent type. I was going to atone for our many nights together when I had glutted myself on pizza and chips and sat wailing in the corner at my discomfort with my engorged belly flopped over my belt. I was going to be, for once, Guy Candy of the highest order - sharp, complicated, and just a little bit dangerous.

Lowering my eyelids to what I assumed was a kind of sexy squint, I clasped my girlfriend's hand and looked meaningfully into her eyes. "Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked, "Are you drunk?" "Yes" I had to admit, then reached slowly for my wine, keeping my eyes fixed with hers, and clumsily knocked the contents of my glass across the table. "Well done knobhead" my girlfriend scorned. A few courses and a crushingly expensive bill later we piled into a taxi and headed home. "I noticed somebody had put something in your pigeon hole" she mentioned on the journey, "I think you've got a secret admirer". "Have I!" I exclaimed, my faith suddenly, joyously restored in my powers of attraction over the opposite sex. "Oh" I said, realising. "It was you wasn't it". I felt the facade of my willful manliness crumble, but I didn't really mind. The pressure had been lifted and I was safe once again to let my belly flop over my belt.

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