Who says that the age of romance is dead ...? Well, I do, actually.

Tomorrow morning, while Valentine messages wing their way through millions of letter boxes up and down the country, I'll be lucky to get a couple of bills and a circular from some double glazing company in my mail.

Yet you'd be wrong to think I live in an emotionally arid, passionless household.

On Monday, an early Valentine arrived - for The Mother.

I know because she told me exactly what it was. And what's so worrying is that she didn't look at all surprised when she discovered the contents of the pale pink envelope.

Instead she smiled, almost coyly, as she read the card then slipped upstairs to tuck it away somewhere, safe from prying eyes. Mine.

"Don't know why you bother hiding it. I know who it's from," I said. The trouble was I didn't - and The Mother wasn't telling.

So, there I was, shifting uneasily between feelings of jealousy and anxiety - jealousy for obvious reasons (what's an 81-year-old woman got that I haven't?) and anxiety about the identity of the card sender.

Had The Mother really got a secret admirer and, if so, when and where had she met him?

But, most importantly, what were his intentions? Honourable or dishonourable?

If the latter, I knew I'd have to black his eye, or both of them. And if the former? Well that could have serious and unsettling repercussions for yours truly.

I was unnerved recently when a friend told us how her own mother, a widow in her late 70s holidaying with some relatives in Florida, had met a charming widower (American) in his early 80s in a hotel swimming pool.

The two had become as besotted with each other as any 18-year-olds and after a whirlwind courtship (well, as whirlwind as a courtship gets when one of you has arthritis and the other an artificial hip) they got married.

And by all accounts they are living happily ever after ... in Florida.

The Mother was quite enchanted by this story and reminded me that she's always been a good swimmer and still looks nifty in a swimsuit.

She was trying to scare me, of course. Reading between the lines, it was obvious the message was: "There's life in this old girl yet and if you aren't nicer to me I'll find someone who will be - and bang goes your inheritance!"

For once, I managed to play it cool. There was no wailing, gnashing of teeth or tearing of hair, hers or mine.

We didn't speak of it again, though I kept myself alert for warning signals.

Was it just the greengrocer's King Edwards she was admiring? What on earth did she and the postman find to giggle about every morning? Why did she keep suggesting I ought to get out more or go away for the weekend?

Monday morning's post convinced me an obviously ardent admirer had slipped through our - my - defences.

"I think your mother's having you on. She's a great tease and she knows how easy it is to wind you up," said a friend (male) over a drink that lunchtime. "It's probably a card from one of her sisters."

Then he grinned. "Why not play her at her own game? Why not send yourself a dozen beautiful red roses on Valentine's Day?"

"Or perhaps you could ..." I whispered hopefully. But he pretended not to hear.

Like I said, the age of romance is dead.