February already. Even the most cursory flick through a calendar or diary shows how we mere humans like to split the year up into this occasion and that event - we've not long since had National Doughnut Week (no, honestly!) and ahead of us lies a long tract of Mothers/Fathers/Grandparents days, Shrove Tuesday and Ash Wednesday, Good Friday, Bank Holiday Mondays, Hallowe'en, Bonfire Night... It'll soon be Christmas. And that's just the official, well-known ones. National Doughnut Week can't be alone in its absurdity, and there's surely a comedy sketch just waiting to be written based around whatever committee it is that apportions these things (we've no time left for Mortality Day; is there a gap into which we can squeeze Haemorrhoid Tuesday?).

Then there's the familial ones, dates more of personal resonance than of national significance. Birthdays and Wedding Anniversaries, or anniversaries of particular events. In Doctor Who circles, for example (sorry small furry creatures) November 23rd is the date of the first ever episode. 5th November is not just Bonfire Night, but the date (in 1966) when Patrick Troughton took on the role. 2nd November is the date (in 1981) that BBC2 started their legendary "Five Faces..." repeat season. And just to prove that Doctor Who-based events are allowed to occur in months other than November, March 21st was the Saturday in 1981 when Tom Baker's Doctor breathed his last.

Let's take another one - November 11th is Armistice Day. It's also my brother's birthday, and it's also the date my paternal Grandmother died. On a different note, it's the date on which I first saw the first episode of "The Fall and Rise of Reginald Perrin" and was changed forever. It's also St Martin's Day, and as if that weren't enough, it's the Feast Day of St Bartholomew of Grottaferata as well (but of course you already knew that).

And so, by noting these little moments and memories we split our year up into what are referred to as 'handy bite-sized chunks', moving from Cousin Janice's birthday to Uncle Ray & Auntie Mabel's wedding anniversary, then on to the anniversary of the day Lord Lucan disappeared, via the date of Alma Cogan's death. However, perhaps the first 'major' date in the year, certainly judging by the contents of our newsagent's window, is Valentine's Day. Mothers Day and Easter are the next two apparently, and the cards and eggs are already in the shop, as if queuing up for their turn in the window.

I don't know for certain the origin of Valentine's Day, and like Ford Prefect I have done only minimal research, but this leads me to believe that it was historically a date where one would send a token, most often a card or letter, anonymously, to the object of one's heart's desire, to the he or she (or small furry-- no, never mind) that you worshipped secretly from afar. Well that's all fine and dandy as far as it goes, but this original, rather melancholy, premise has long since been absorbed and corrupted by the powers of commercialism. I would hazard a guess that the vast majority of Valentine's cards are now sent from one half of a couple to the other (and vice versa of course) without any sense of secrecy or anonymity being involved. Indeed, anybody getting a card nowadays with genuinely no idea of its source is more likely to think "stalker" than they are to be excited.

This 'umble column initially started off on the rather spurious grounds of viewing kids films/TV through a grown-up's eyes (well, through mine anyway) before then expanding into more general child-related observations. But I feel now that I may be steering myself into a third area - namely, the rant! This is not entirely uncharted territory, at least beyond the confines of my PC, and many's the evening that my long-suffering wife has had to put up with me arguing with the TV. News and adverts, particularly adverts, are the usual targets - my own personal unfavourite being the "Tax needn't be Taxing" advertisements. Pardon me, but why should we be so gratified that the tax man will calculate our tax for us? Isn't that the very job of the Inland Revenue? Isn't that in fact what we pay our taxes for??!!

So, having forewarned you that there will be little in the way of lovely glowing childhood memories in the remainder of this page, let me carry on now with a full head of steam. Valentine's Day in the 21st century is surely a rather pointless and empty exercise, putting smiles on the faces of card manufacturers and florists everywhere, but not really serving any more laudable purpose than that. Of course, one could just be terribly sensible and not get embroiled in the whole "send your other half a card" routine, but that's reckoning without the pressures of expectation. The window of every shop in town (even, heaven help them, the window display in our local charity shop which rather unsettlingly has more than a touch of the Liberace about it this year) has some reference to Valentine's Day in it - the message now being, it seems to me, not "if you love them but they don't know, send a card" but rather "if you love them, how will they know unless you send them a card?"

Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that I won't buy my wife a card, and likewise I'm sure she will buy one for me. But if that isn't the most absurd statement in this column (ever!) then I don't know what is. Even worse than that - those with long memories may recall my mentioning our daughter in relation to Halloween, and how she considered it almost as worthy of general excitement as Christmas. Well, Valentine's Day is another one on her list of dates to be deliriously breathless about, as if the very fact that it's some sort of D-A-Y gives it significance. And of course she's seen the "Lisa & Ralph" Valentine's episode of "The Simpsons". I seem to recall that last year we did have a bit of a paddy from the young'un because she didn't get any Valentine's cards. Now, I'll grant that there are absurd lengths I will go to, and already have, in the interests of keeping the peace, but I draw the line at buying my daughter a Valentine's card. Goodness me, whatever next--

--Ah, if only I could write as fast as real life throws out absurdities! Whatever next is this: My daughter sponsors three dogs through the Dogs Trust (formerly the NCDL) and this morning she received three Valentine's cards. That's Valentine's Cards. To a six year old. From dogs. Has the world gone mad, or has it always been like this and like Arthur Dent I've just been too wrapped up in myself to notice?

Of course my notorious lack of feeling (or at least, any pleasant feeling) towards dogs has now sunk even lower, not just because of the madness of them sending out Valentine's cards, but also because the overriding need to mention such craziness above has really buggered up my narrative flow! Originally, the answer to the question "whatever next" was to be... Flowers. Not dogs, but flowers. Because of course as these commercialised events snowball with each passing year, the expectation now isn't just a card, but surely if you love him/her you'll want to buy them something to show that love! Our local garage has a whole shelf full of cuddly toys clutching hearts and making goo-goo eyes. Why????!!! And they have flowers. Our supermarket has flowers. The newsagents have flowers. Even the little florist down the hill has flowers. Well, OK, the last one is probably perfectly reasonable, but if I may rant some more, and at the risk of repeating myself, Why????!!!

Say it with flowers. That's what they say. I do occasionally buy my wife flowers - although, if the name at the top of this column was Mrs Curnow you'd probably find that sentence would read more along the lines of, "Andrew once in a blue moon buys me flowers, grumble mumble" (possibly followed by some profanities). But, factually speaking (no really!) I have in my time bought her flowers. I don't mind doing it once in a while, I don't have any particular moral or ethical objection, but I do wonder, once again... why? Why flowers? They may look perfectly nice stood in a vase in the sitting room slowly dying, but surely they would look much nicer stood in the hedgerow or in a field still living. OK, I don't actually have any great investment in that argument (although that's never stopped me using it in my defence) as I'm not really a flower person at all. But you do wonder what the origin of giving flowers is, don't you. Or is that just me?

But it gets yet more complicated, because of course, being Valentine's Day, just any old flower isn't good enough - roses, that's the ticket, red roses. Like the committee allocating days and weeks (Is there any interest, do we think, in National Apathy Day?) who precisely decided which flowers were nice and which weren't? For that matter, who decided which flowers were flowers? I think dandelions are perfectly lovely, and so easy to grow (which is a great boon for the disinterested gardener like myself) but I am informed that they are in fact weeds. And yet, to play Devil's Advocate for a moment, if I went out and picked a dozen (oh hang the expense, two dozen!) dandelions it would surely be displaying much more effort and care than if I just picked up the phone and ordered a dozen red roses from Interpol. If it's the thought that counts, then isn't a heartfelt personal delivery of hand-picked dandelions priceless?

Before you think I've taken leave of my senses, or have developed some kind of marital death wish, Don't Panic. I'd no more give my lovely wife a bunch of dandelions on Saturday than I would... well, than I would give her a dozen red roses to be honest. I'm not even saying that I begrudge buying a card (not much anyway). But it seems an empty tradition - and one might even argue that by giving us all just one day a year when we're supposed to demonstrate our love, doesn't that give us an excuse not to bother for the other 364 days?

I'm by no means some lofty spiritual thinker, and although I might sometimes question the reason (or just scoff at the absurdity) of things, I in general 'tow the party line' on most occasions. I won't be buying roses this year, lovely though our florist is, and to be honest I don't think my wife will be expecting me too. (Hmm, will that sentence come back to haunt me I wonder?) Of course, that could just mean that after seven years I've driven all the romance and hope from her, poor thing. But more pragmatically, with two rabbits, five cats, two rats, three gerbils and two guinea pigs (oh yes, and a daughter) to support, there's only so far things financial will stretch. I'm writing this on Wednesday evening, so it's not impossible that we might have a blazing row tomorrow or Friday (almost certainly if she reads this!) and that I will then relent and go rose-picking. But my plan at the moment is to buy her a box of chocolates instead, with the message, "Would you prefer a dozen red... Or a box full of Cadbury's... ROSES".

Ah, but of course the immutable law of the universe insists that no man can ever, however hard he tries, get ahead. And so my wife will probably chuckle and smile, and consider, and then ask me why she shouldn't have both?!

Goodnight Young Lovers!