Did someone mention love?

Ok admit it. How many of my fellow singletons woke up with a desperate sense of hope on Saturday morning, just in time for the postie and flower-toting delivery girls to arrive?
Liars! You can use every excuse under the sun. Its too comercialised, it's old fashioned, soppy, expensive, 'sentimental tosh', etc etc, but deep down, our excitement does grow at the prospect that somewhere, someone out there has gone out and thought of your enough to buy you that special (and often cheesy) gift.
Obviously no me. I was not up at 8.30am, running to the door in search of hopeless desperation. And I was not disappointed when the only card I found there was from my equally single boy friend (note: boy space friend).
The worst thing is dreaming you've already got up and there is one (or six), making the reality a truly rude awakening when you find only the proverbial bills, bills, bills and the said 'pity' card that we'd arranged to exchange in a previous 'how sad is my life' drinking session.
"Carpe diem!" I proclaimed as I headed to the shops, where I felt a whole lot better - after all, if you can't have love there's always shopping.
And then on Valentine's Day, I did fall in love. My heart was racing. How could something so beautiful exist? Italian, sophisticated, well-nuilt, from a good background and well-heeled.
There, in that department store, I found Robert Vianni, or at least a pair of his shoes. And they were a quarter of the original price - it was love at first sight.
I do believe they were calling out "Take me home!". So I did. It wouldn't have been fair not to.
For at least half an hour I felt fantastic. I was single. I had a new pair of beautiful shoes, with no one to answer to as to why I needed yet another pair - except of course from my bewildered mother - and I was starting to plan a lovely evening of trying my entire wardrobe with them.
That is until my absolutely-not-single shopping buddy set out to create the perfect evening for her and her valentine. Candles, rose petals, good food, good wine, love heart patterned place mats, coasters, napkin rings (you get the idea).
Jealousy now flooded the parts pity had filled earlier. It was then I started to notice the couples, the Romeos standing every few metres grasping bouquets and thousands of cards not bought and not delivered to all those sleeping beautys.
I'm a singleton! Get me out of here!
Carpe what? I was single and it was Valentine's Day. My nearest and dearest ALL had 'dates' in ome respect. The person I wanted to spend it with was on the other side of the country, but he was a non-believer anyway.
In the same respact that if you utter the immortal words that you don't believe in fairies, somewhere in the world, one dies, if a non believer rubbishes romance, somewhere in the world a singleton's heart breaks.
I had to think rationally, What difference did it make? I'd been single for, well, a lot more days than this one so why was I bothered? Possibly because for a fortnight, being in love had been drummed into every orifice from every medium. And what possible use did I have for a foiled heart-shaped balloon and teddy clutching a heart anyway?
Time to take action. Ah yes, that's it. Diem.
So I didn't spend the night alone and bored. Instead I ghose David Gray, a bottle of vino, a luxury face pack, hair mask and a two hour bath. I was so proud of myself that I even left the ridiculously highly calorific ice cream in the freezer.
Even after everyone else had let me down, I couldn't let myself down as well, could I?
So I propose a toast. Next year, let us have a day which we will call St. Single's Day. It shall be full of luxury, shopping, shoes, pampering and nothing resembling hearts, teddy bears or cupids. Chocolates are allowed, as are candles, though only to add ambience to your two hour bath and not in any way for dinner.
The next day I was awoken again by a pityful sound: Steve Wright's Sunday Love Songs on Radio 2 - commercialisation at its best. "It's Valentine's Sunday and we'd love to hear from you," the radio announced.
No you wouldn't, Steve, you really wouldnt.