I don't care that it was a Waitrose 'romantic meal for two' and thus prole-posh. "It was only fifteen quid" are not words any girl wants to hear on Valentine's Day.

And, dear banker Sebastian whom I shall never see again, you know exactly what you can do with your £1.50 Essential rose. Still, a better effort than that on offer at Mr P's round the corner from the P&F office.

Same dusty cards as last year; same Black Magic assortment with Win a Holiday in Egypt competition, but this time augmented by a display of cardiac health leaflets pinched from the foyer of University College Hospital. Included, I assume because of the large red heart on the front, albeit slightly diseased. Oh the entrepreneurial spirit of the independents!

While pouring scorn on my love life, Miranda has also posted my details (sparkling company, dirty laugh, own hair see photo, etc) on mydesperatefriend.com. Unfortunately the only people whom I seem to be compatible with so far all are fmcg brand managers. A date with one of them would feel like going to work.

There's certainly no-one either a) attractive or b) heterosexual among the small number of males working at P&F. They all look about 12, anyway, thanks to the new policy of recruiting as many unpaid interns as possible.

Productivity ground to a halt this week with the news that energy drinks are bad for kids. With Red Bull off the approved list, they're going to have to resort to the old staples of booze, fags, or something from Karoline (with a K)'s 'special drawer' in order to keep the work rate up.

Fortunately Jaegerbombs don't seem to be implicated, so real PRs can continue partying in the usual style. I'm assuming it's the goodness of the herbs in the Jaegermeister that nullifies the Bull shit.


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