THE very fact my wife is still talking to me as I type these words is testament to her understanding nature, sense of perspective and good grace.

The atmosphere remains a little frosty, but I'm optimistic we will soon move out of the cold front.

She even gave me a fleeting smile as I walked through the living room a few minutes ago.

Still, I've had better St Valentine's Days.

Despite never embracing the spirit of the occasion (I think it's a commercial rip-off), I've always towed the line to keep her happy.

She receives a card every year, albeit at the last minute - and Tuesday was no different.

"I'm just popping out to fill up on petrol," I had calmly announced ten minutes before our local garage closed on Monday night.

"The car's running on fumes."

We hugged, I planted one on her lips and added for good measure: "Won't be long - love you!"

It was a performance worthy of a West End stage, a master class in coolness under pressure.

In reality I was in a right flap. It had dawned on me in the shower that the card I was definitely buying her on the way home from five-a-side footy was still in the shop.

What shop selling cards would still be open at this time of night? Thank you the BP garage!

Its limited card selection has never let me down on countless Mother's Days, Father's Days, birthdays and bereavements.

Reaching there in record time, I could barely get through the door. You've never seen so many stressed out husbands and boyfriends. They were everywhere.

Sweating teenagers ran out with bunches of roses; fretting middle-aged men carried armfuls of Ferrero Rocher; an ugly scrum had formed at the card rack.

I joined the queue, praying there would be something left.

The female staff were loving it. They tutted and shook their heads despite accepting fistfuls of cash for bland bouquets that reeked of unleaded.

I barged my way through the panicked throng and eventually found a suitable card. It depicted a couple enjoying breakfast in bed with a love heart above them and the words, "for my beautiful wife".

I sighed with relief - another Valentine's Day successfully dealt with.

"Have you just been to the BP again to get my card?" my wife asked as I walked in with it stuffed down my jeans.

"Do I really mean that much to you?"

I'd been rumbled! Only one thing for it in this situation - a certain massaging of the facts.

"Don't be daft," I said. "You should know me a bit better than that. You look really sexy with those pyjamas tucked into your socks. Have you lost weight?"

At times like this I really envied my friend Jonny. He adamantly refuses to recognise Valentine's Day, telling his wife it is a big con designed to make millions for card companies and flower shops.

He says he will express his undying love for her on the day he chooses, not when Interflora or Hallmark says he should.

Every year, therefore, his wife is showered with cards, flowers and a posh meal - on February 13 or February 15. Jonny reckons it's his way of beating the system. When his beloved wished him Happy Valentine's Day on Tuesday, he replied: "I love you every day of the year".

Most wives are not as understanding as this.

Many expect a Thornton's fudge heart or four-course Italian meal at the very least on February 14.

To her great credit, my wife is satisfied with the minimum.

A piece of advice though: before choosing a card always read the message inside. It could save your blushes, at the very least.

In my haste I hadn't read it.

My error was pointed out within minutes of arriving at work on Tuesday. The phone rang.

"Thanks for the lovely card," said my wife.

"Just one minor point, though. IT'S NOT MY BIRTHDAY!"

Then the line went dead.

Oops.

As a consolation she can expect flowers and chocolates next year, or maybe a road atlas and de-icer.

I hear our BP garage has a good selection.

Updated: 08:52 Friday, February 17, 2006