Like something out of a really dull episode of Hollyoaks...

Saint Valentine's day! The worst day of the year for my poor old postman. 

Oh no, not because his sack is overloaded with loving cards and trinkets from my scores of admirers, but because I verbally abuse him for having stolen all of it. Seriously, does he really think I believe his tale that nobody has sent me a single thing yet AGAIN? 

In reality, aside from the ones that I've sent to myself (and others that have been well disguised as bills and the Damart catalogue) I've only ever received one Valentine's card in my life.

This was when I was 15 and at school. It was from a girl called Kerry. She was very lovely and drew a picture on a folded Post It note of some cute creature (a cat I think) holding a heart. Inside it said something like "wishing you a happy Valentine's day", i.e. there was no actual declaration of undying love, just a wish for a happy day.

Despite this, it still warmed my heart. I carried it around in my jacket pocket and proudly showed it to anyone who would look. It was a bit like being a New York detective who would whip out his badge to prove his credentials. If anyone made out that I was in anyway undesirable, I'd produce my crumpled Post It note to prove them wrong. I then frisked them down and sent them away to be processed by the boys in the downtown precinct. 

In my own shambolic way, I then attempted to court Kerry for the last few months we were at school together. I'd casually loiter around the corridor where I knew she'd be having her last lesson of the day, just so I could say 'hi' to her as she filed past with her class mates. 

Just getting a glimpse and a word from her made the long walk home (having missed my bus by hanging around) much more bearable. The first half mile, I was walking on air. The rest of the journey, I was on my last legs (I've never had the gift of athleticism) but still glad I'd seen her nonetheless. 

Eventually, several months down the line - in the Easter holidays if I remember correctly - I summoned the courage to phone up and ask her out. This was long before the days of mobiles and texting. Back then, one had to actually talk to the person of their affection right from the outset. And worse still, there was always the possibility that you'd end up speaking to one of her parents if they were to answer the phone. 

Despite the risks involved, which felt like they may ACTUALLY kill me, I armed myself with a big glass of water to soothe my sandpaper-dry mouth and a little script of what I was going to say. I must have sounded like a telemarketer trying to sell someone double glazing. Except instead of new windows, the product was a dream date to watch 'Look Who's Talking Too' at the local Odeon.

Despite a very wobbly voice and several episodes of hyperventilation, somehow I managed to dupe her into thinking this would be a great idea and she agreed to accompany me. 

My initial euphoria soon turned to sheer terror as I realised that in just a couple of days time, I would be having to, you know, go on a date and stuff. What does one do on these things? Where would this lead? Should I propose before initiating any kind of physical contact? 

I felt both amazingly excited and extremely anxious about what lay before me. I couldn't sleep much, but I was weeing a lot. 

When the fateful day arrived, I got up early and had like three showers or something and washed my hair twice, trying to get it just right (it was 1990 and I had what I hoped were cool spikes, but they probably just looked a bad kind of messy, stuck fast with gel that went flaky before long).

About an hour before I was due to leave, I had a phone call. It was her! She was ever so sorry, but she couldn't make it after all. She had to babysit someone at short notice. 

Was this a genuine thing or had she had an epiphany about what she had agreed to? I guess I should have been upset, but in fact I was elated with relief. What to me was an almighty terrifying task, had just been removed. It was like receiving a stay of execution.

I can't really remember much of what happened after this. I left school to take my GCSEs and only saw her very occasionally. The last encounter I remember with her was at a bus stop a year or so later. I sensed she wasn't at all interested - she had blossomed and was really attractive and clever, so I suspect that she now had lots of fine chaps who could see in her what I always had. Without Twitter or Facebook or mobiles to keep in touch, that was that - we completely lost contact.

As it turns out, 'Look Who's Talking Too' was one of the worst films of all time, so at least I saved some money on that, not to mention the whole dying of embarrassment thing.

Anyway, in conclusion, I know that some people detest Valentine's day for its commercialism and also the pressure some single people feel it puts on them. But it can also be an opportunity to bring people together (even if everything eventually ends up going to rat shit).

I do wonder what St Valentine would make of everything that is now done in his name. I had a quick look on Wikipedia to see what he was like and was struck by the following quote:

"Nothing is reliably known of St. Valentine except his name and the fact that he died on February 14 on Via Flaminia in the north of Rome".

So it turns out that Valentine's Day IS actually nothing but bullshit after all!

  

Dearly departed

It's a very sad day for my family and I, as we've had to say farewell to Lily, our kind, gentle and ever so eccentric Fox Terrier. She didn't seem quite right yesterday, but I was still shocked to see her lying there this morning, mercifully peaceful and happy, but very much headed for whatever existence waits for us beyond this.

Lily was the second Fox Terrier we'd had and judging by our experience with them both and also the tales shared by other owners (note 'tales' and not 'tails' - that would be too odd), they seem to be a very intelligent, determined and slightly loopy breed. They are certainly full of character and if you've ever read the exploits of Montmorency in Jerome K Jerome's 'Three Men in a Boat', you'll know what little rascals they can be.

When I was younger, we always had dogs and other pets, but for some reason their passing caused me little problem back then. I guess it's true that children are all the stronger for dealing with their emotions in a very upfront manner, externalising problems through a spell of yelling or screaming, then when thoroughly cleansed, letting go and moving on.

Obviously the above example is far from perfect and even as youngsters, many of us will have held onto issues that may hold great sway over us well into adult life. But if left to grieve in a healthy way by understanding carers, children do seem to be remarkably resilient at dealing with loss of this kind.

As I've got older though, I now find the passing of my furry friends to be far more painful. I'm really not sure why this might be. Maybe they've become a substitute for children or other significant relationships and consequently when they die, it's far from saying goodby to 'just a dog'.

At one time I would've never chosen to own a single pet, so I can totally understand the lack of empathy some people show at the loss of a beloved animal. My mum and sisters were the real animal lovers and it was somewhat grudgingly that I would take my turn at caring for these various beasties.

Over the years though, bonds were formed and I grew exceptionally fond of these dear little creatures with their own, very distinct natures and personalities. Lily for example was a very gentle, outgoing dog who loved to mix and socialise with everyone. If she were human, I'd have compared her to someone with a quiet confidence, very intelligent yet also with her head in the clouds most of the time. She was very sweet and I will miss her greatly.

It's been quite an unfortunate year with regards to some of our animals. As well as Lily, we also lost another dog (of the same age of 105 in dog years), my dear little cat, a very grand guinea pig and a beautiful pony. Once the initial shock has passed, life goes on of course. But I still find myself at times with terrific heart ache at the thought of never seeing, cuddling, feeding or even clearing up after them again.

Sometimes these feelings just arise by themselves, apparently unprompted. At other times, particular things trigger them in my memory - certain times of day, smells, special occasions or even something daft like when watching a film.

I saw Puss In Boots the other night (the Shrek films and those like it are a bit of a guilty pleasure for a childless man of my age) and those dear little animated cats really made me feel a deep sense of loss for my own. The clever observations of feline behaviours portrayed so skilfully by the animators of the movie, really seemed to strike a chord.

I'm so grateful to Lily and all of our other dearly departed friends who I hope are now skipping around some sunny meadow together somewhere, reunited and in their prime. They have taught me a great deal about what 'love' really means and how relationships can be full of happiness and peace, without any expectation or grasping at particular outcomes.

I'm not sure if I'd ever be capable of experiencing the ideal of 'unconditional' love in a relationship with another human, but with my animals, so far as I can tell, I have done so.

If I come in to find one of them has decided to use the indoor facilities, rather than go outside and do their business in a cold and wet garden, I still can't help but love them. Likewise, even though I may come down from bed a grumpy, dishevelled wreck, there are tail wags and smiles aplenty from my dear pals. Even the experience of keeping chickens has taught me what affectionate and loyal little characters they can be.

Spending time with these wonderful beings has been such a privilege and I'm so glad to have had that chance. Each time one moves on, I find myself being extra attentive to and appreciative of all the others. But of course, why should we wait until such a sad day for that to happen?

Death is a funny old business. It's the only thing that we know for sure that we shall all face someday, yet usually it is pushed way back into the dark and dusty corners of our minds.

Despite its inevitability, it somehow still always manages to cause us to feel a shock when we hear of the passing of someone we either know and love, or even someone we think we know, but don't really - e.g. the recent deaths of Neil Armstrong and Max Bygraves.

We seem to need to be jolted out of our everyday existence, which we usually try to make as comfortable as possible, to get a taste of reality. Death really is an uncomfortable subject for most of us though, hence the need to erroneously file it away in our minds under "won't actually happen to me".

In many ways, it can be gift, a real reminder of the fragility of life. The impermanence of ourselves and all of our relationships, are what makes all of them so special and precious.

When the kids are driving you up the wall or your dog's just peed all over your new carpet, it's so easy to want to get angry and shout at them. But if you can somehow stop that automatic reaction and take a couple of deep breaths whilst remembering that someday, you and they will have departed company, the extra perspective gained will cool your ire and bring you great relief. You may even find yourself laughing at just how ridiculous it is to take anything that seriously.

Although it's not so comfortable, Lily's passing today does serve as a reminder to me to try and resolve to fully live in and appreciate each moment and all it contains. For who really knows what the next one may hold?