Tomorrow, more than one billion Valentine’s cards will be sent worldwide. Most are given to parents, teenagers and, not unexpectedly, husbands and wives who, if they didn’t, would die a thousand deaths.

But maybe, out of that billion, one or two will be sent to people who genuinely don’t know they’re the object of someone else’s affections.

And that, for me, makes it all worthwhile.

I’ve always thought the whole point of Valentine’s Day is the opportunity it gives us to express our love and affection, anonymously, to someone who, because of marriage, financial commitments or fear of infection, will remain forever out of reach.

That, surely, is what makes it fun? After all, getting a card hand-delivered from your boyfriend or girlfriend, with a giant bear on the front and a heartfelt poem inscribed inside – Example: ‘I Will Love You Forever Because You’re Called Trevor’ – just doesn’t set my pulse racing.

An envelope dropping on to my doormat, however, shortly before I leave for work (yes, it’s a romantic fantasy as I’m well aware of the Royal Mail’s shortcomings) can make the hairs stand up on the front of my palms.

The handwriting should be delicate, and inside, a card, maybe perfumed, bears a simple question mark.

Clearly, on any other day, it’d probably be the work of a stalker, but on February 14, its message can only mean one thing – that out there, among the tens of thousands of other commuting Oxonians, is an individual who, in moments of whimsical daydreaming, imagines I’ll pick up the tab for dinner.

And if that could indeed happen, just once, I think I could slip off this mortal coil a happy man.

Instead, from the moment I get into work, I know I’ll be witness to a field of gaudy bouquets, all proudly displayed by their recipients.

In light of this, let me paint you a picture of my perfect Valentine’s (times and places are available on the Oxford Mail website).

I wake and it’s snowing, so I tug on my boots and step out into winter wonderland. Crunching down Walton Street, past the cafes, their windows steamed up, I decide what-the-hell and stop for coffee.

Inside, and with not a spare seat to be had, I finally find refuge in the corner, in the rear, at a table for two.

It’s a tight squeeze, but I manage, until a woman, hidden by a scarf and buried in a classic book, asks if she can join me.

I smile, winningly, and she sits down, our eyes involuntarily meeting, then darting away until we learn to trust our instincts.

She says it’s cold, I ask what she’s reading, we laugh, and then she leaves, called away by a female friend waving through the window.

And that’s when I see the roll of £20 notes which have slipped from her pocket. I curl them into my palm, pay, and wonder what I can spend the money on.

Really, could tomorrow get any better?