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Your support makes all the difference.I will be in the office by 7.30am this Monday morning, frantically scrabbling through my post, discarding all envelopes that are not purple, pink or red.
To me Valentine's Day is a national day of purgatory, where good girls get cards and bad girls get cards, flowers and trips to Paris. Having Valentine's Day during the week is terrible: the ritual humiliation of trying not to look at your pigeonhole.
But Valentine's Day on a weekend is far worse. You can't even get a decent night's sleep, for any time after 5.30am you're convinced that you've heard the postman. When the post finally does arrive there is only one thing worse than getting no Valentines at all - getting one you have no idea who it's from.
The message was simple enough to give nothing away - well, what character clues are there in "Be My Valentine"? For the first 15 minutes I was intrigued - who could it be - Colin Firth? Ralph Fiennes? Please, not the lecherous corner shop guy? After that it was hugely irritating. My flatmate might have the answer. I woke her up. "I've got a Valentine and I don't know who it's from," I said.
"Well you won't. It's not signed."
"No, I mean I don't recognise the writing." She suddenly gets interested: "Really? A secret admirer. It could be anyone, couldn't it?"
"I've checked all my past love letters and it matches not one of my ex- boyfriends' writing. And I've already got the card from my mother, so it's not her."
On Vanessa's advice I ring up every male suspect and gauge how embarrassed/ pleased he sounds. As most of them are spending Valentine's Day with their girlfriends, most sound frankly fed up. Never mind, there's always the evening meal with all my mates. When the bill comes round I look at every Switch receipt for their signature. After I think I have discreetly read the fourth one, Paul coolly remarks: "We've split the bill equally, if you're worried about paying more than anyone else."
"No, er, it's not that." I go bright red, still no clearer to my elusive Romeo.
I spend Sunday drawing up lists of who it might be. I ring girlfriends for their opinion. I am being driven mad. I just want to know if my admirer is worth it.
So, boys, when you send a valentine, make it clear who it's from. I haven't slept properly in two nights and it's like the crucial first hours of a murder inquiry: if you don't solve it quick it gets more and more difficult. So I'm setting my alarm for 6am, and going into work to try to solve the enigma.
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