As Valentines Day rapidly approaches, I, like most single, people think the world is too cruel and that I shouldn't be facing the prospect of spending Saturday night home alone because I'm a nice person don't you know.

But then I look down at the olive oil stain I managed to get on my left boob when I was cooking my dinner and the fact that I've just spilled cammomile tea in my lap and suddenly everything makes sense.

I can at least take comfort that I'm more attractive than the man I saw this evening who kept sniffing his own fingers. At least, I'd like to think I was. But maybe his irresistable sexual appeal had something to do with why he was sniffing his fingers?

Excuse me. The mental image I've just given myself has made me feel rather queasy and I fear will give me nightmares. Still, I suppose I could use my time spent not sleeping to work on a parodical novel - Fingersniff.