Carol’s Column

So who needs romance on St Valentine's Day?

VIC Cook sent me a valentine that said 'You can be my Valentine if you give me your frog.' That was when we were both seven.

A year later, he sent me a homemade card that said 'You can be my Valentine if you give me six gob stoppers'.

At the age of 10, our romance blossomed. He sent me a Valentine card and a present, exquisitely wrapped in toilet paper covered in hand-drawn hearts.

Then I knew he really cared. For no self-respecting 10-year-old boy would have parted with his prize conker unless his intentions were serious.

The following year, our relationship suffered a great setback with the arrival of Melissa Fudge on the scene.

A simpering, blonde-haired wimp with buck teeth and enormous violet eyes — she received Vic's prize conker and my heart was forever broken — or it would have been had it not been for Marvin Alkin.

For Marvin moved into the block of flats where we lived and pursued me with a determination that caused my 11-year-old heart to flutter.

No matter that he was half my size, looked like a peanut and sniffed due to the fact that he suffered from a chronic blocked nose and post nasal drip.

Such was young love.

But today things are different.

Pressures are greater.

Take my youngest unmarried daughter of 10.

"Have you noticed how hard Nicky's working," I mentioned to Jamie the other day. "She spends all afternoon and evening doing her homework."

He snorted loudly, which is what brothers often do when talking about younger sisters.

"She's not doing her homework," he said, "she's drawing Valentine cards."

"Valentine cards?"

"Yes, it's St Valentine's Day on Tuesday and Nicky's getting prepared."

"Ma, Valentine's Day is Big Business. Do you realise that last year Nicky received 43 Valentine cards from admirers?"

"She did?"

"Yes, and I received 57," he added modestly. "Now, you've got to send out cards otherwise the givers of the cards will be hurt. So, that's why she's been busy drawing cards like crazy."

"And you?" I queried.

"Well, I'm busy with Latin and Afrikaans," he said, "so I commissioned Nicky to draw a few for me."

"How many?"

"Only 50."

"Fifty!" I was nonplussed. Even more when I discovered that Barry and Ralph had set up a chocolate-heart-making factory.

"Listen, this is ridiculous," I said crossly. "What the hang is the fridge doing stuffed with red roses instead of cottage pie and bean bredie?"

"Ma, you can't send someone a bean bredie or a cottage pie on St Valentine's Day. It's just not romantic. You can't stick a bean bredie on your chest and wear it with a smile. It would ruin."

Cards, roses, chocolates — my life has been filled with a plethora of St Valentine-iana. Even the dog's bones have received heart-shaped bones wrapped in pink ribbons.

But only yesterday a huge envelope arrived at our house. Too large for one person to carry, it was brought by the postman and an assistant. Best of all, it's addressed to me.

Through the envelope, it's obvious it's a king-size Valentine card.

My family are suitably impressed and I'm smirking modestly.

I've gone up in their estimation by leaps and bounds.

"Wow, Ma," said Nicky only this morning. "I think that's incredible receiving such a fabulous Valentine card at your age. I bet you can't wait to open it on Tuesday and see who it's from."

This isn't the moment to tell her that I know exactly who it's from.

Me. To me.

I mean, I'm not going to be the only person in this household who doesn't receive a Valentine card, am I?

Psst ... Vic Cook and Marvin Alkin ... where are you?

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