Love, or something like it.

At some point last night the topic of Valentine's Day came up over a couple of drinks.

"Obviously I told the Boy du Jour that he didn't need to get anything for me on Valentine's," I said. "But I realise now that it was a lie and in fact I require a diamond as big as my head in order to maintain the stability of our relationship. How can I rectify this potentially disastrous situation?"

Thoughtful silence ensued. "I believe a drunken text message is in order," opined one esteemed compadre. "It is after all a trusted, effective and time-honoured method of communication."

"An excellent strategic plan!" I cried, and thought no more of it for another two glasses, at which point I zipped off the suggested text with my customary wit, irony and general fabulosity.

At least, that's what I thought at the time. He hasn't exactly replied, which I can only assume is because his entire attention is now occupied with the question of where to find said diamond.

That's really the only rational explanation.