So here we are again: Valentine’s Day is nearly upon us and, once more, Cupid has left me to fend for myself.

In fact, the chubby cherub d’amour has abandoned me for so long, I’m almost embarrassed by how many of these lovey dovey days I’ve spent alone. I’ve literally been single for years.

Of course, there was the brief interlude that eventually saw the arrival of the little guy – and what a joy he is – but essentially, it’s been just me. For ages and ages and ages.

In truth, I’ve been single for so long, I actually wonder how I’d cope in if the unthinkable happened and I finally found myself in a relationship. It’s awfully easy to get set in your ways when it’s you (and only you) who decides every aspect of your routine, from how the bed is made to what brand of coffee to buy.

Since I’m the kind of person who tends towards rigidity in their habits – no matter how hard I try to fight it – I wonder whether I’d be able to cede control to any newcomer and let them take the driving seat now and again.

Lord knows, I’ve even got the little guy trained to tidy up after himself so I’d probably have an apoplectic fit if I paired up with someone who left dirty socks lying around on the floor.

However, given the circumstances, it’s unlikely to happen any time soon: last week I went for a night out for the first time since Christmas. This is not the way that beautiful new friendships are made.

Cupid has scant chances for success when my day is basically split between work, the nursery run and that housebound, post-infant-bedtime period. Weekends tend to be spent between chores and visits to the park, with the occasional excursion to more exotic locations when the sun shines.

In short, my life is not a hotbed of romantic activity or, indeed, any circumstance that’s likely to invite it.

On the other hand, the Phantom Texter continues his textual charm assault, which brightens my day, but until his circumstances change – something that doesn’t look remotely imminent – it’s a friendship that’s on a hiding to nowhere.

Thank heavens for the little guy, who thrills and delights in equal measure … when he’s not engaged in the ferocious tantrums typical of his age. Truly, there is no patience like that of a parent.

Who knew that simply tearing off and proffering a piece of sandwich could provoke such ire? (“It’s broken!!! Waaaaaaahhhhh!”) Or that choosing the “wrong” pair of socks for his tiny majesty could result in a mini-meltdown of 20 minutes’ duration?

Still, these outbreaks of unbridled rage are balanced with sticky hugs and sloppy kisses; declarations like, “I love you, mummy. You’re my favourite mummy ever!” and inexplicably random comments, such as, “I look like a Judy. Judies have balloons.”

So even though Cupid may have given up on me and I can’t have hearts and flowers, I can at least have grubby little paws wrapped round my neck, sneezes sneezed directly in my face and boogers wiped lovingly onto my arm.

And honestly, if you’ve got that, who needs a fat little fella with a wonky bow and arrow?