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By February, the hopeful little glimpses of springtime make me dream of summer holidays. I want tropical weather and 99 ice creams and to be able to eat outside in the evenings with the sun on my face. The days are now getting longer and lighter and it is a blessed relief to get up in the morning without feeling like you’re being dragged out of bed in the dark, depths of night and it’s liberating not to have to close the curtains by four o’clock in the afternoon. And somehow, at this time of year, as I walk through the streets I am sure I can occasionally smell a barbecue somewhere. This is probably unlikely seeing as a couple of weeks ago we were buried in snow, but the faint, char-grilled aroma reminds me that summer does exist and it makes me want to burn my heavy winter coat, wear light flowery dresses, paint my toenails bright colours and skip barelegged around the city.

But with February’s lighter evenings, comes something altogether heavier, and there is a twist of anxiety in the stomachs of people looking in their diary and seeing… February 14th. I’m not sure what it is about Valentine’s Day that creates such a frenzy. After all, it is a day dedicated to the celebration of love, surely it should be a warm and cherished day upon the calendar? But in the days approaching, we all feign indifference: ‘Pah! Valentines Day?!’ everyone will exclaim. ‘I don’t believe in it!’ ‘Load of commercial rubbish!’ ‘It’s just a money-making scheme and I’m not falling for it!’ we’ll say. Women pretend they don’t like it so that they don’t seem high maintenance and men can’t like it if women don’t… and so I believe that the typical English thing to do is to pretend we’re not bothered about it. Even if we are. Like the way that I ‘couldn’t care less’ but can’t help feeling a slight wave of disappointed when I pick up the Valentine’s Day post and find a pile of bills and a load of cheap take-away menus.

Do I like Valentine’s Day? You know, I’m not really sure. It’s not that I’m not romantic. In fact, I’m far too romantic, which can result in a bit of a let-down. For example, when I first came to explore this wonderful city, I envisioned cycling through London parks on my bicycle, a basket full of shiny apples or fresh bread, stopping to read a good novel under a blossom tree in the sunshine. I was utterly outraged that there are cars everywhere (apparently this is called traffic and it’s perfectly normal), but cycling in mortal fear of red buses really interferes with my daydreaming.

But when I’m not on my bicycle, I carry my romanticism around with me everywhere and it fills ordinary activities full with possibility. When I go to the grocery store I always wear a nice coat and a slick of lipstick - just in case - as I think it would be a lovely place to meet a handsome stranger.
Sometimes I buy myself a bunch of flowers (lilies are my favourite), just for the hell of it, and it makes me smile walking home with them (also, if I do meet a handsome stranger, he’ll of course wonder who they’re from). And at least once a week, I’ll visit ‘The End’, a second-hand bookshop near my house that I regard as pure heaven. It smells musty - the way old book shops should smell – and is full of character, mystery and intrigue. I think about the stories that the book covers tells as well as their contents and it always warms my heart to read the messages people have written inside them, beautiful handwriting and faded ink. I can spend far too long browsing or sometimes I’ll take one home with me, curl up on the sofa for the afternoon and wonder about the people who owned this book before me.

So, romantic I may be, but I suppose we have a point when it comes to Valentine’s Day: I don’t like that it brings pressure, giant bears holding a heart that says ‘Be Mine’ or that it costs a fortune at restaurants (I’d take a second-hand book for 50p any day). And it always makes me sad when I see Valentine’s gifts reduced in shops the next day, as if there is an expiration date on love.

Which is why Valentine’s Day should be what you want it to be. One of the nicest things about growing up means that at last you can make your own traditions and for the last couple of years now, my friends and I will go somewhere for a Valentine’s brunch. We go the weekend after Valentine’s Day (to avoid the overpriced menus and often excessive public displays of affection) and eat somewhere special that we can’t really afford but we make the exception once a year (just because we’re not rich, does not mean we can’t be glamorous!). This year, we went for brunch at a particularly gorgeous, lavish and decadent establishment and to the amusement of the staff, ordered three breakfasts between the six of us. But even so, I felt incredibly sophisticated. Lou and Anna shared eggs benedict, Kat and Chrissie shared French toast with blueberries and crème fraiche and Jane and I shared the most scrumptious granola with Greek yoghurt and fresh strawberries and a delicious fresh pain au chocolat. And what we saved on brunch, we made up for with champagne and I left feeling full, content (and giggly!), dearly appreciating the spirit of St. Valentine’s Day.

I bought a bunch of lilies for myself from the grocery store and walked quickly in the cold (I was most glad I hadn’t burnt my winter coat) and just couldn’t resist nipping into ‘The End’ for a quick look. I perused the handsome bookshelves for a while before – in the spirit of Valentine’s Day - picking up an old but pretty, worn-out book of ‘Love Poems’. The title was somewhat faded but neatly inscribed in gold letters on the hard-back cover. Beautiful, I thought, hoping someone had written a message on the inside. Sure enough, written in beautiful handwriting in thick black ink: ‘Darling Maddi, to our first Valentine’s Day together. That is to say, the first of those that really counts xxx.’ What a coincidence, I thought, and how terribly romantic. This is what romance is; writing in books to your beloved, warm affection on worn-out pages. I fumbled around in my pocket for some change as I wondered how old it was. It was then that I noticed the date. In small, neat letters, written underneath the kisses, it read ‘February 14th, 2014’. I closed it quickly. Was it my imagination? It couldn’t be. I looked again. 2014. ‘That’s 50p, sweetheart.’ said the old man behind the counter. I paid him and hurried home.