What can I say; I hate February 14.

I know I should be tripping around in a rose-tinted haze, contemplating the sack-loads of cards set to cascade through my letter box tomorrow morning. Except that they won't. Realistically all I can expect is one from my mum. And that's sadder than sad as she only sends it because she feels sorry for me. How mortifying is that!?

I'm not saying I'm without admirers, but I suspect that the best I can hope for is the odd e-card. And somehow that's just not the same.

I've even contemplated dispatching a couple of copies of Love Letters Of Great Men (I know the book didn't really exist when Sarah Jessica Parker started reading it in Sex And The City, but Macmillan recognised a good concept when it saw one and has published a real version) .

Which is why David Beckham has to be my Valentine's hero. He's a shining example to all men of how it should be done. Posh is one lucky lady.

Somehow it always feels like any romance in my life is stage-managed - by me! How nice to have a partner who dedicates time, effort and energy to making the day special, and all off his own bat. Even if Victoria doesn't end up staying in Milan tomorrow, I bet they do something special.

Bitter? Twisted? Me? Never! I'm just hoping that, after this rather envious whinge, a certain someone's attention may be drawn to today's post and inspire him to a whole new Valentine's approach...