February 14th. The toughest day of the year for me as a writer. Possibly because I'm not a writer. (I'm a plumber.) So when I'm called upon to write like Shakespeare - in love - I get nervous. Especially when in the past, when I've managed to pen something that hasn't involved crossings-out or spelling mistakes or saying the same thing as the year before, I've been accused of stealing it off a perfume ad.

OK, deep breath. Sit down. Open the card. So much empty space. Errr . . . ummm . . . errr . . . errr . . . And then it comes to me. Make a phone call, have a chat with a nice lady, book an appointment. Ready to start writing sweet nothings: "A photography studio, 42 - 46 Alderman's Hill, 2.30, this Saturday ???". Sonnet finished. Possibly the most beautiful, heartfelt stuff I've ever written. So go on, if the prose isn't flowing this Valentine's Day, you have my permission to copy me and write and tell someone how you feel. With a picture.