Two words for this lovable old friend: Je t'aime

The early days of a relationship find shape as a kind of show and tell. "Look," you are saying: "Here is what I care about." Who and what we love say something about us, about our instincts and desires, our patience and our pliancy. The sweet pain of revelation. All part of the thrill, I'm told.

- VEL HUNT

Stand down, I'm not in a mess, Twiggy hasn't called off the engagement. No one's crying into a martini.

But Valentine's is frolicking closer, so I've been considering it. Where to go? Home, of course: champagne, candles, bed (sofa, desk...) Restaurants are not at their best on the big night: too much pressure, too many demands, too many tetchy boyfriends seeking a kind of perfection they recognise but cannot describe. Clos Maggiore, which has long proclaimed itself to be London's most romantic restaurant, might handle this.

It is a specialist in culinary fastidiousness, offering a date night for those who love neatly, with everything just so, with spiralisers in the kitchen and Steven Bartlett books on the night stand.

I know an altogether more tangled and tousled kind of love, but have learnt flawlessness can bore and there is currency in the blemishes. It follows that the places I love and associate with love Le Beaujolais, Andrew Edmunds, Bouchon Racine - are not flawless either. Though one has to look very hard to find fault at Racine.