From the Heart

The shops are crammed with things that would make the most exquisite Valentine gifts. There’s the pale lemon sun dress with the tiny parsley green hearts at Chloe, the bubblegum pink leather holdall with gold hardware at Ungaro, the dazzling gold evening trainers at Hogan, the covetable Satin de Chanel compact of pinky lilac highlighter for cheeks and décolletage. A bottle of Givenchy’s Very Irresistible anyone? But are there people who actually buy Valentine’s Day presents, beyond the highly acceptable bunch of flowers and box of chocolates? I just don't know of anyone who takes Valentine’s Day shopping seriously. And it’s not just laziness, or lack of interest , some sort of vague gift agnosticism. There are strong feelings involved. ‘I don't like to be told how and when to show my love,’ one sensible nine-and-a-half-months pregnant friend of mine objects. This is someone who spends a quarter of each year planning her husband’s birthday surprise. ‘Isn't the whole thing a bit cheap and tacky. You can't do these things to order. We’re not sheep. Surely every day should be Valentine's Day.’

Her words make me deeply uncomfortable, as though she is insulting my religion. For so much of my life Valentine’s Day meant everything. At school and at university your worth was measured by the number of Valentine’s cards you could boast. We had pacts with our friends to save face. ‘I’ll send you three if you send me three’, we’d say and then send four or five, for mystery. Of course, it’s easy to forget that originally it was all about mystery and anonymity. Sending a Valentine was a (relatively) non risky way of making a quasi declaration that was easy to deny or withdraw if met with indifference. During the awkward years it represented about the most tentative steps you could take towards someone you liked who, with any luck, would never even know it was you. Yet it also felt incredibly daring. What if he recognised the postmark! What if he deciphered your wobbly left handed writing! The desires to be original and artistic, but also entirely untraceable sometimes clashed. Will he know the tinned Fray Bentos Steak and Kidney Pie is from me? Two tickets to Ian Bostridge singing in The Tempest at Covent Garden with ‘Happy Valentine’s Day to My Darling Husband Love from Guess Who? XXX!’ is pretty good, but it isn’t the same.’

Yet Valentine’s Day excitement needn’t just be the preserve of teenagers. Nor should it lose its mystique at the instigation of the card companies with their ‘Happy Valentine’s Day to a Gorgeous Grandson Love Grandma.’ There must be a grown-up way of honouring the festival without buckling under its commercial taint. The best Valentine I ever received was a box full of about a hundred pieces of scrap paper, each one, like the most complimentary kind of fortune cookie, expressing a lovely sentiment concerning myself and my future. I have kept them in a small leather case which says Bolsa de Viaje on the front and I still look at them occasionally, if I have a low moment. They never fail to revive me. Perhaps I’ll dust down the heart shaped cake tins this morning and put pen to paper . Then I might just go and have a little look round the stores, just in case. The time to make your mind up about shopping is never.