(I posted this earlier, and then it just plain vanished. Fortunately a friend caught it in his RSS reader so it is herewith reproduced. My apologies if you’re getting to enjoy it for the second time).

Today is St Valentine’s Day, the day when we honour the life of a bishop, a priest or a martyr, or possibly someone else, who probably died around 270AD, unless he didn’t, but is noted for doing something, though God knows what (literally – “… whose names are justly reverenced among men, but whose acts are known only to God.”). Oh, and the whole thing was made up by Chaucer. Or not.

This remembrance takes different forms. In England there are two traditions. Those who have recently passed puberty will spend hours agonizing over how much of their pocket money they can spare on a dangling cubic zirconia or other trinket clad in genuine 3 carat gold, which must in turn be received with declarations of undying love from the object of their affection, followed by an hour’s frottage before mum comes to collect you.

In contrast, those for whom puberty is but a memory officially start the celebration with a cry of “oh bollocks!” Note that this can be as late as 5pm, while listening to the radio during the commute home. This is followed by a sprint round the nearest garage to get flowers, chocolates, gravy browning etc. Once the inevitable resentment from the spouse/significant other has subsided there may be a brief bout of frottage before spouse/s.o. goes to pick up her frustrated teen.

In both cases the intent is strictly sexual, with perhaps just a smattering of lurv. This helps to explain why the English find the American custom of giving Valentine gifts to your children bloody creepy.