One day or everyday

I suppose we can't ignore the fact that it is St Valentine's Day. Red packaging and hearts and flowers galore. The glossy mag stuffed into my Sunday paper features the 20 most romantic places to visit and even the cash pages tell you the right decisions to make financially if you are romantically involved with someone. Funny phrase that romantically involved and funny old day St Valentines. I wouldn't say that me and Stewart were romantically involved anymore, biologically involved organically, gut wrenchingly, more like two mountains pushed up in folds together involved but romantically sounds too light, too fluffy. Romance to me means a story not the real thing and so does all the stuff that fills our shops, someone else doing romance for you.

We have visited a few of these romantic places and no doubt gazed into each other's eyes maybe once or twice without bursting out into peals of laughter. But if that red deep hearty stuff is worth having, for me it has to happen in Victoria on a cold wet morning rather than in Venice on a gondola, under the chemo drip these days rather than under the stars. Of course I'd rather be under the stars and in Venice than Victoria but not because it's romantic but because it's a darned sight nicer.

The closest we ever got to marking the day was in our first year of marriage when on 14 February I made him stuffed hearts for tea. His Nan used to make them and so I got the recipe off her. She guffawed somewhat at my plan but she was a good cook and a good teacher of how to do it (I still make her rice pudding to the very letter). Offal wasn't my big thing in those days but Stewart scoffed them down and I have no doubt all of that blood content did a lot for his circulation which as time goes by you realise is far more important in terms of performance in the love field than romance.

Kathleen Flett writing in the self same glossy magazine this morning says: " just last night my youngest son, lying in bed after his story and cuddling his blue bear, held up his arms to me and said: "Mummy, my heart needs to tell you how much it loves you…" and I thought mine would just explode, right there, messily, all over blue bear and Iggle Piggle and the blanket-called-Boo, and everything. Yeah, why would I want the kind of "love" you can buy in the shops? "

Right on Ms Flett and a prize for you for the person who made me cry this morning - doesn't take much these days just mention kids and their Moms and I am off. On that note our St Valentine's miracle of the day is that I am feeling OK and am rustling up a proper Sunday lunch for my two Iggle Piggle lovers and their Mom and Dad and their Grandad who assures me he loves me every day. We will have all the trimmings, we will finish off with rhubarb crumble and custard, I will keep it all down and there won't be a heart in sight. Why would there be I learnt 41 years ago that they are just a pile of gristle and tubes, which take all day to turn into anything worth putting in your mouth. I have never cooked them since.