Kayt Turner: 'Every year he forgets Valentine's, and I have to listen to the same self-righteous speech'

'IT'S just another greetings card industry inspired event. I have absolutely no intention of lining the pockets of those f***ers at Hallmark who believe that everyone should buy a card with some pathetic, vomit-inducing verse on it in order to convey their feelings to someone they see every bloody day."

"And neither," he carries on, drawing himself up to his full height, "would I entertain the idea of buying you a card that would purport to come from a f***ing pet. And anyone who ever did buy one of those cards shouldn't have a Valentine at all. People like that shouldn't be allowed any reproductive rights whatsoever."

Every year he forgets. And every year I have to listen to the same indignant, self-righteous speech about how he wouldn't lower himself to take part in such a bastardisation of the true and finer feelings that he has for me. Although he's got no problem in me participating. In fact, he's more than happy to receive the card and small gift that I give him over the breakfast table.

I've heard it all before. To be honest, I'd probably be disappointed if I didn't hear it. He's been spouting it since the first Valentine's Day we were together. In the week before I had spent hours searching for the right card. I wanted it to express my sentiments perfectly. Loving but not too sentimental. Sweet but not too sickly. I'm not exactly the type to pick a cuddly patchwork bear that says "I wuv oo".

I had spent a considerable amount of time on this decision and finally felt that I had got it right. So I had quite a smile on my face when I handed it over to him. Only to be greeted with: "Er, that's nice. I haven't, er. Well, y'know. I, er, didn't."

Keeping my smile firmly in place, I pointed out that the day could hardly have come as a surprise to him. The shops had been strewn with hearts since the first of January. For God's sake, even the canteen at your office had Valentine's Day cards for sale! You have to give it to Mr Turner, when he sees even a glimmer of a lifeline he grabs it with both hands.

"How could you think that I would ever, ever consider buying you a card from the canteen," he thundered. "Good grief, if I'd wanted to, I could have run to the garage this morning and got you flowers, chocolates and a card. But I think better of you than that. You're worth more to me than some poxy bunch of wilted forecourt flowers. Anything that I say is from me, not the piss-poor poets at some card company."

I sat there listening to him and I was, initially, genuinely moved. And then I said to him: "You didn't forget, did you? You could have gone to the garage for chocolates this morning – but you didn't. You just didn't bother your arse."

But he was still on his high horse, and would dismount in his own good time. "I will have no part in it," he declared. And that's been the end of it.

Over the years I have done my best to lead by example on the Valentine's Day gift front. I've sent flowers to his office. The next year I sent him a bunch of flours. For one heart-stopping moment he thought he had a mysterious Columbian admirer.

The year after, when we were refitting the kitchen, I sent him a bunch of floors. Nothing says "I love you" like a quality selection of Marmoleum.