It’s the perfect relationship, really.

I get to see George anytime I like by pressing play on my back catalogue of ER DVDs and he, well, he gets to frolic with gorgeous women in fancy dresses and go to fabulous premieres.

Okay, maybe it’s not so perfect.

The fact is, I spent Valentine’s Evening knee-deep in Drano thanks to busted bathroom plumbing and a strangely absent make-believe movie-star husband.

It did the trick, though.

I fixed the drains.

But as I watched the accumulated gunk flush away down the plughole I couldn’t help but think – where is the romance in my life?

I mean, by George, where have all the flowers gone?

I once had a boyfriend who declared every Tuesday ‘flower day’.

Every Tuesday, without fail, he would return from work with a gorgeous posy of flowers for me.

It was lovely, at first.

It lasted about three weeks before he started leaving ten bucks on the kitchen table and a note which said “these are for your flowers”.

I suppose the thought was there.

And I did plenty of thinking myself while downing the Tim Tams I bought with his tenner.

I realised you could not set a day to be romantic; that meaningful declarations of love strike when you least expect it.

Sometimes they even hit you when you have one arm down a drain and the other in a bucket of suds, dirt in your hair and grime all over your face.

This was the scene when I was hit by the love bug on Valentine’s Day.

There at the door of the bathroom was my little girl.

My little girl with a note which said “I love you, mum”.

And all of a sudden I couldn’t ever remember feeling more loved.

Not by anyone – especially not George Whatshisface.