1800. Tuesday 13th February. People say that Christmas seems to get earlier every year and I can well understand why. Christmas is a happy time that extends well beyond a single day. Christmas is about giving: presents, love, little acts of human kindness, whatever.

Thank goodness that Valentine's Day is a single day. It passes in 24 hours and then it is gone. Like a hurricane, it rushes by, leaving a trail of devastation in its path.

People without Valentines. People whose other halves forgot Valentine's Day. People who had previously thought they had Valentines, but whose intended lover turned out to be "just good friends" who had never thought about them "in that way" after all.

In its own way, Valentine's Day is, like Christmas, about giving; but the only people who notice this are those who have nobody to give to.

For whose benefit is Valentine's Day, anyway? Is it an excuse for those lucky enough to have partners to be all lovey-dovey for a day? Don't they do that all the time anyway? Perhaps Valentine's Day exists purely to annoy those without long-term happy relationships, or those, like me, who would happily settle for whatever they can get.

I am dreading tomorrow.

2100. Just spoken to one of my friends on the phone. I asked her if she was anticipating receiving any Valentine's cards. She said she was having her pigeonhole widened. I can't work out whether this was very crude symbolism or not. Good luck to her tomorrow, anyway; not that she really needs it - I'm sure her pigeonhole will be stuffed full.

0830. Wednesday 14th February. Got up with unaccountable sense of impending doom and disaster. Stared at self in bathroom mirror for a long period, wondering whether I had suddenly become vastly more attractive since last year. I think probably not.

Went into the KUB and was immediately accosted by the most attractive girl on the floor, whose boyfriend had sent her a dozen red roses by courier. I just growled.

I really wish I had accepted that job interview today; it would have taken my mind off things. Still, no use crying over spilt milk or wasted opportunities. Instead, out of a morbid curiosity, I wandered over to the court reception and checked through my mail.

There were no less than three red envelopes with my name on them. I could not believe it.

With shaking hands, I opened the first. It was a birthday card.

I'm not only disappointed, I am very annoyed. My birthday was three months ago.

With suitably lowered expectations, I tore open the second card. There was a picture of a teddy bear holding a bunch of roses on the front. This is the real McCoy. Somebody had actually sent me a card. Holding my breath, I opened it.

"Dear Danielle," the first line read - and I hastily checked the envelope. Yup, it's true; I've accidentally opened someone else's Valentine's card. I popped it back in the pigeonhole with a scribbled note of apology on the envelope.

Having verified the name on the front of the third card, I opened it. As is customary, it was not signed; but I immediately recognised the handwriting of one of my ex-housemates, Phil, who is obviously playing a trick on me.

1200. I have just spent the morning's lectures computing the total amount I have saved by not having a girlfriend. Bunch of roses: £30, if I want them delivered. Box of expensive chocs: £7.50. Meal out at posh restaurant: £60. Bottle of champagne: £20. Present, possibly an item of jewellery or an expensive perfume: £20? £40? £80? I don't know, I've never bought any.

The funny thing is, although that's a lot of money, I still wish I was spending it on someone special. Perhaps fellow girlfriendless barefacts correspondent Rich W and I could found a dating agency on the university campus.

1430. In a sudden panic attack, I decided that it was a stupid idea not to send any cards; this is the one time of year when you can legitimately pour out your heart to that girl you've had your eye on all this time. Besides, as I said, Valentine's Day is all about giving, not receiving.

Obviously it is now too late to post a card or buy a bunch of flowers, so an e-mail will have to do, despite e-mail's inherent lack of romance. I signed up for an anonymous Hotmail account and settled down to consider my victim.

There are just over three billion women in the world. One of them is The One. On the other hand, I only have the e-mail addresses of a tiny fraction of that amount, so...

1500. Why stick to one? I have selected three people. I decide upon separate tactics for each. To the girl I know the best, whom I have always considered a friend, I shall send a self-penned poem. It's quite good actually; the theme and meter are reminiscent of medieval works. I didn't know I could write poetry so eloquently. She must inspire me. On the other hand, if she ever found out that it was me who wrote it, I think she would be very disappointed. She definitely sees me as "just a mate".

Next is this girl in one of my lectures. I don't know her e-mail address but it is easy enough to find out, so I'll send her a simple "Happy Valentine's Day from ??? XXX".

Finally, a gorgeous girl I've seen about campus and dancing on the stage at an FNO. A friend of a friend of a friend, I only found out her name last week. I know her and she doesn't know me, so I can afford to be a little more forthright in this case. I've decided upon a fairly long description of exactly why I think she's so dazzling. It isn't poetry, but then, I'm all poemed-out for today.

1530. Just finished sending the messages when Phil came in. Trying not to grin, he asked me if I was more successful this year that last. I told him I had seven cards. That shut him up.

I am suddenly worried that the three might know each other and mention the e-mails to one another. That would ruin my chances with all three and might make me look just a little fickle. Perhaps I should have selected just the one after all.

0300. Thursday 15th February. The Union this evening was just like every other Wednesday night, except that the happy people were happier and the lonely people were lonelier. People do stupid things when they think that other people are having more fun. There was that guy at Graduation Ball last year who set off the fire alarm after he was dumped. I've seen somebody beat up a lamppost on campus after he was rejected. There were a few fights tonight, too, but mostly people just got drunk and depressed.

Phil came back to mine afterwards for a night-cap and major bitching session. First, he expounded his theory of the perfect "woman's woman" as opposed to the perfect "man's woman". Then one of my housemates, John, came into the KUB and told him to stop shouting, but when he heard what we were talking about, he sat down and explained his own theory. This concerns the manner in which women have gone, in a relatively short space of time, from being the ones who wanted the security of a long-term relationship to being the ones who were happier playing the field. He blamed "girl power" and the quest for equal rights for men and women. The pendulum of equality, he said, had now swung back, but had swung back too far - as evidenced by the three of us sitting around the kitchen table in the early hours.

He was right, though. It has been scientifically proven that women are happier when they are single whereas men tend to do better when they are in a relationship. If anyone had claimed that ten or twenty years ago, they would have been ridiculed.

0500. It may be the middle of the night, but having despatched Phil on his way home, I decided to check my e-mail.

Two out of the three had replied.

The one to whom I sent the poem has not. I suspect she never will.

The girl who received the one-liner responded similarly with the simple greeting, "Thanks."

But the third - she has sent me a long e-mail, all about herself. I am very surprised and rather flattered. Most girls would be terrified if a complete stranger sent them a message suggesting, effectively, that they were being stalked.

Am I a step closer to a Valentine for next year? Probably not; but at least I can go to sleep now with a smile on my face. Not because I got a reply, but because I made her fell appreciated, however briefly. And that is what it is all about, anyway.