The Veuve is chilling in the fridge…

The stockings are on ice…

The threats of “You’d better take me out, or else!” have paid off…

There’s a frisson of romantic excitement in the air. Oh yes. You could see it as people queued outside the card shop yesterday: sweaty of palm, sure of luck. They were practically limbering up for the sweetly anticipated bedroom acrobatics. Fair fucks: you don’t want to put your back out at the crucial moment.

I’d join in, only I’m knackered. Me and The German were up until 3am playing backgammon last night.

And why, you may ask, weren’t we getting a good night’s kip in preparation for all the saccharin-sweet declarations of everlasting love that we’re obviously going to be engaging in later?

Because we were having a backgammon match. Whoever lost has to buy the Valentine’s fish and chips tonight.

I won. Eat that, loser.

The Pinter double bill The Lover The Collection at the Comedy Theatre last night was decidedly less than enthralling. Harold Pinter’s sharp eye for comic satire was drawn to the fore by director Jameie Lloyd, but it wasn’t handled subtly enough for me. What I like about Pinter’s work is his ability to weave such wonderful tales of mystery and repressed middle class carnality, but honestly, you’d find more sexual menace in an episode of Rainbow.

I blame Gina McKee’s femme fatale mostly. Her lascivious sliding across floors on all fours made me feel decidedly off kilter. I thought she was going to tip over at one point and she sounded like Mary Poppins on 60 a day. Not sexy.

The homoerotic posturing in The Collection was well intentioned, but looked over-egged. Too much obvious staring at groins. It was as if the director was standing in the wings stage whispering to the audience, “Psssst! Look! They’re doing alpha male macho posturing, with an undercurrent of sleaze! Do you seeeeeee?”

Still, you can’t help but admire the work of a great playwright, even if you don’t like the interpretation put before you.

So in future, I think I’ll stick to my usual Monday night routine: sharpening the kitchen knives and ironing my suspender belts.

Perfidious issues have colluded to make me slightly less delightful company than usual. Variously:

1) My hormones are performing world class histrionics. I predict all out warfare by the end of the day.

2) Tanya who sits downstairs is about to have her first book published, which confirms what I always knew: I’m a lazy underachiever, saddled with a gross overconfidence in my own abilities. Oh, and I’m also terminally covetous because I want someone else’s success, but am clearly far happier sitting on my backside eating smoked salmon and cream cheese sandwiches, instead of going out and grabbing my own slice of glory pie. Thus confirming my aforementioned indolence. Are you with me so far?

3) Usually I have a wave in my hair that I’m very proud of and when time permits, I like to overindulge it with lashings of curl-enhancing product. Well the fucking wave’s deserted me. It’s given me up for Lent and I’m left flat, bereft and ultimately follicly challenged. It’s as though all my bounce left through my cranium and took the wave with it.

4) ¿Donde esta el sol? Answer me that, Sian Lloyd, with your budget Dusty-Springfield-impersonation hands.

5) Other stuff in varying degrees of shittiness. I shan’t bore you though - I’ll stick to the trite stuff above. I’m not in the business of taking you all down with me. (Yet.)

So the answer to all this self-indulgent woe was a restorative trip to Mango at lunchtime. I am now the proud owner of one pair of perfectly cut black bootcut jeans. They’re all treacley and touchable. And they ticked all the boxes:

• Pockets positioned so as to make derrier look deceptively diminutive? Check!
• Long enough in the leg to look good with flats and heels, but not so long that I look like a gnome? Check!
• Right shade of black and not purposefully faded on the thighs in manner of cheap crap sold in New Look and brethren? Check!
• Natty crease down the front in manner of smart woman of the world? Check again!

We have a full house.

“Bejesus!” I announced smugly to my reflection, “For the pauperly sum of 25 quid, I have acquired the king of jeans!”

“Indeed,” replied my duplicate. “Now be brave and check to see how the tummy is looking above the perfect new jeans. Go on. It’s only appropriate.”

“Are you sure?” I peered suspiciously at my alter ego. It was becoming apparent that leave had been taken of senses. “I’ve seen the damage a new pair of starchy jeans can do up there. That torturous squishing that plagues all women, before you’ve had an opportunity to perform a sequence of bizarre lunges and squats to stretch them into shape.”

“Yes, yes.” The crazy in the mirror cajoled. “Just get on and do it. You’ll be fine. Promise.”

Then she winked at me. Always a bad sign.

So I gingerly lifted my t-shirt and who do you think greeted me?

The Pilsbury fucking Doughboy.

And if you’d like to see the jaunty jig the piss-taking little bastard used to mock me, go here.