As far as I can remember, no one has ever called me honeybunch, cutiepie or snugglebum.

No, not even on Valentine's Day, a date which as I've grown older has come to mean as little to me as other February festivities such as Groundhog Day or Abraham Lincoln's birthday.

Nowadays I sit slackjawed when I hear friends and their partners of 25 years plus still calling each other "darling" and "sweetheart", or catch them eyeing each other as lasciviously as a couple of hormonally-hyper teenagers.

"Grow up," I want to shout. "We're middle-aged now, we should be out weeding the garden, watching the stock market, enjoying Last Of The Summer Wine, not planning a sexual tryst after the washing up."

Sour old s**, did I hear you say? Well, maybe, but the truth is that until last week I'd forgotten that the spirit of romance was still alive and well, nay flourishing, out there in the streets of Brighton and Hove.

A friend and I arranged to meet up for a girlie gossip over dinner. I decided to book a table at a new restaurant that had been highly recommended by neighbours.

"A table for two next Wednesday?"said a voice repeating my request.

"I don't think we can manage that, we're terribly busy next Wednesday but let's see, if you can make it quite early we can probably squeeze you in."

"Fine," I said, thinking that any restaurant doing such good business midweek must surely merit our attendance.

"It'll be worth it," said the voice. "We're planning a really romantic evening, roses and candles on the tables and a special menu to put you in the right mood for the occasion."

"Excuse me," I said. "Special menu? Right mood for what occasion?"

"Why, Valentine';s Day, of course," said the voice. "You and your partner will have an unforgettable evening."

Whoops!

"Sorry," I said. "I was bringing a female friend."

"We don't mind," said the voice, trying to sound broadminded.

Well I do, I thought. So after mumbling some excuse, I put the phone down.

"How ridiculous," I said to another friend who called round for a coffee at the weekend.

"Fancy planning special menus for Valentine's Day. Christmas is bad enough - and it'll be Easter soon - but what is there to celebrate about Valentine's Day?"

"Romance, of course," said my friend. "I'd love to be taken out to dinner on Valentine's Day and gaze into someone's eyes across a candlelit dinner table.

"But not yours," she added quickly.

"Romance," I said, "is a load of . . . well, a load of something pretty unromantic.

"Surely, at your age, you realise that romance doesn't get the kitchen sink unblocked or a washer changed.

Women like us don't need roses and candlelit dinners, we need a man who can handle a Black and Decker and knows where to find the stopcock."

"You have no soul," she said.

"You mean I don't read Mills and Boon," I replied.

"Well, I still think those three little words - I love you - are the most wonderful in the English language," she said defiantly.

"Actually," I said, "I have to admit there are two little words that make my heart race and my legs turn to jelly."

"Really?" she said curiously. "What are they?"

"George Clooney," I replied.