I am very much deep in the shit this time, I'm afraid. My egotistical male insensitivities will undoubtedly not be tolerated this time round and I wouldn't at all be surprised if I have hurt her feelings to such an extent she is planning to smash various objects over my head. It won't help a bit, but I am very ashamed of myself. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. I accept full responsibility for the recklessness of my actions. I forgot to send Avril Lavigne a Valentine's card. I have already begun thinking of ways to make it up to her. Most, perhaps unsurprisingly, involve a bed with a firm support.
   Fortunately I am not at home for the lovely Miss Lavigne to come round and kick ten shades of shit out of me, as everyone who has seen her videos realises she is perfectly capable of. I'm not even in Scotland for that matter. An emergency has led me to fly to Europe, where after much fucking about I found out cartons are opened by pushing rather than pulling the lid. Nuts to the lot of them.
   Sending cards for Valentine has become somewhat of a tradition for me ever since some years a go my ex demanded I send her something and I mailed a funeral card. The next year I took my later to become girlfriend to a performance of Mozart's Requiem. Of course no fucker ever sent me anything. Me, with my loving, warm, tender and delightful personality. I should be swamped with mail every year, most in happy colours and none ticking preferably.
   This year I was going to send a wee card to my ex to tell her how much I love her in London, though I realise that correct punctuation is of the absolute essence in that particular sentence.
   Most importantly of course was the bunch of roses with a picture of me to send to my dearest Avril, after which she would shower me with kisses and ask me never to leave her. Maybe not to disappoint the fans she would ask me to pretend to be her new guitar player. Fuck knows my being tone-deaf won't make any substantial difference to the way the songs are performed now.
   To make me feel even worse than I already do, someone with far more decency than I have actually sent me something this year! A red rose. A proper one! I really needed a moment to compose myself after a wave of emotion surged through my blackened sense of feeling. You see; I'm really just a big softie.
   Realising full well that receiving one single red rose in twenty-three years is not the most impressive of results I can quite proudly state that my Valentine was, in fact, a model. Ha! In your face! Not that I am of the competitive kind, but I just thought I'd rub it in. Surprisingly it was someone I had never slept with. Surprising as in getting the card, not surprising I have never slept with a model, despite my obviously incredible good looks. Honest.
   Perhaps not sleeping with people is the way forward to receiving shit for St. Valentine then. Maybe some Australian will get so addicted to not having sex with me she'll send me Tim Tams next year. It's worth a shot. It might just work and let's face it; not sleeping with people would hardly constitute a dramatic change to my current lifestyle. I imagine the biggest challenge would be to actually find people I would consequently not sleep with.
   In the meanwhile I have opened a continental bottle of lager, am terribly ashamed of myself and with a rose in my clutches fantasise about me, Avril and my sweet model doing all sorts of ungodly things. With entertainment like that, who needs a wee silly fucking pink card?