Valentine's Day.  Hmmm.  Wasn't it supposed to have been fun?  Wasn't it the day when we were supposed to throw caution to the wind and confess our undying love for those whom we have secretly admired from afar?  (And no, I'm not talking about the incident with the telescope.  I should remind you that I was actually acquitted of that charge due to lack of evidence, and Miss Wothering-Smythe - the one with the small tattoo of the Taj Mahal on her lower back - has moved to another town).... (and, apparently, changed her name)… (she obviously owed money).

So where was I ?  Yes, Valentines day.  Or, as Mrs Ed started calling it 10 years ago 'Safety Boots Day'… but that's another story altogether.  (Her fault for suggesting I get her something 'black and lacy' to wear on Valentine's night)

So this year Valentines Day came and went in our household, and I must confess it was a day that was memorable, though for all the wrong reasons. Why?  Let me explain.

You see, this may come as a surprise to you but we are broke.  Stony broke. Al is klaar Kommissar. We are the king and queen of the cash-less society.  Have you ever heard an ATM machine laugh? Follow me and I'll show you….

The thing is, between the Christmas presents,  the twenty- seven-month-long December school holidays (when children believe we are their own personal ATM), the heat-wave (which necessitated liquid intake at a much higher daily rate), and the coming home to roost of some rather desperate rolling of December/Jan bills, we found ourselves starting February in a very precarious position.  My Bank manager wants me to go for a medical…. daily….  And I KNOW that's him parked outside my house every night, watching us… because I recognized the sobbing sound from when I visited his office for the last over-draft extension meeting….

So what does one do when one is broke and Valentine's Day is approaching?  Of course - one cuts a deal with one's spouse.  But this is where men and women differ.

(NB As I know many couples may have had similar conversations, I will suggest that both partners read the following dialogue.  The men should just read the underlined 'speech' sections, but I know women prefer more than just headlines, so to keep it exciting for them I have also filled in a few descriptive lines stolen from the Mills and Boon romance novel I found under the deep freeze when we decided to defrost it… because it was empty)

“So,” I said, looking deep into her eye (they are a bit far apart to look deep into both at the same time, especially from close up) “That's agreed. This Valentine's day I won't buy anything for you, and you won't buy anything for me?” 

She crossed the room and stood against the open window, staring out into the rolling hills of her father's estate as she searched for a meaning, a reason for the pain that lurked deep within her soul.

“Yes,” she replied easily, belying her inner turmoil as the light breeze gently riffled through her sun-kissed locks. “Yes, that's fine.”

“But let's get this clear,” I  uttered, choking back the pent up frustration that years of living a secret life had left boiling violently under the surface of my seemingly innocent demeanour, “That means NOTHING.. Not even a small trinket?” (these days 1x small trinket = 3 loaves bread in Rand Value). Through the tears that I knew would never flow freely, I noticed that she was gently, seemingly thoughtlessly, rubbing a small scar behind her left shoulder, and I wondered whether she would ever tell me what had happened.  I somehow sensed that the scars on her heart were so much deeper.

She turned around, breaking the moment in a flurry of decisiveness. “Of course.  I understand. We are broke. No Valentine's presents. Please don't treat me like an Idiot,” she stated matter-of-factly, striding across the room to the door . She paused briefly as she left, not turning round, but perhaps wanting to say something, then deciding against it.  Would I ever know?  Would I ever see her again?.......

Ok, back to reality.  So we cut a deal.  Simple really isn't it?  Makes sense, doesn't it?...  Do you know I can actually feel all the men nodding as I type this.  And all the women storming out the room.  (No I'm not saying that 'This column was typed in front of a live studio audience', I'm just using my imagination)

The question is, do such deals work?  

Ah…. I hear a resounding “NO!” from absolutely everyone, men and women -  and hang on,  there's a brave little fellow at the back who has the courage to add “Because the women always break the deal!” (I'm sorry sir, whilst I thank you for stating the obvious  I fear that your spouse may wish to remove your head from your shoulders when you get home.)

Mrs Ed presented me with a small chocolate and a cold shoulder on Valentine's morning.  I, of course, had nothing to offer her, though I did try -  perhaps passing her the rather battered copy of 'Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition' that just happened to be lying next to my bed wasn't a good call.

“But we made a deal!'  I reasoned as she harrumphed down the stairs.

“If I'd known small chocolates were allowed I definitely would have got you something…” I  shouted as I heard her slam the kitchen door….

“I'll buy you something at the supermarket later today!” I whimpered out the bathroom window as the creak of the front gate sounded her exit. 

Too little too late.

Apparently it's the thought that counts, and 'I thought we cut a deal' doesn't qualify.

Of course a day which starts like that - especially being a Monday -  can only get better, can't it?

As the average teenager would surmise “NOT!”

I now truly believe that electronic equipment is female.  Worst still it can sense the emotions of it's human counterparts.  I have proof.  On the morning of Valentines Day, just when I entered The EDGE offices silently wishing things might start getting cheerier, our main computer's hard drive obviously got wind of my Valentine failure, and in some strange allegiance to Mrs Ed, it crashed.  It wouldn't talk to anyone.  Though I didn't know machines could portray emotion, this was the closest thing to slamming the bedroom door and saying 'Just leave me alone' that I've ever seen performed by what I previously thought was an inanimate object. 

We all knew she was in there, sobbing to herself that the 12 loyal years of Newspaper stored in her disk obviously meant nothing to me, but no amount of coaxing would persuade her to talk, never mind unlock the door. After  a while we got the specialist in - the 'drive whisperer' .  He psycho-analysed  her for a few hours, before shaking his head in despair.

 “I don't know what you did to make her behave like this” he said, “but I'm not getting through at all.  I'm afraid I'll have to take her home for the night and see what we can do.”

It wasn't long before the Internet Modem realized what was going on, and she too began sulking.   “You men are obviously all the same,” her green 'disconnected' light blinked at me.

The office was chaos.  No 'mainframe', no  internet, and of course, popping out to buy Mrs Ed a little something, just to make up, totally slipped my mind. 

By the time I got home even the stove had joined the sulking sisterhood.  It thwarted my attempts of making-peace-by-making-dinner, by burning everything to a crisp.

Mrs Ed eventually did talk to me.  Just after midnight she said “Come out from behind the curtains, and get into bed.” Nothing meaningful but at least the silence was broken.

And our hard drive?   It took two days but the disk-whisperer finally managed to get her back to her former self. I asked what had gone wrong but he couldn't explain.  To be honest I think he got his wife to chat to her.

He'd be mad if  he didn't!