I’d been so preoccupied by the thought of them that I’d forgotten that first we’d have to get through the awful annual Valentine’s card ritual. Every year at school, for the first two weeks of February, there’d be a makeshift postbox stationed in reception – an old cardboard box covered in pink tissue paper and printouts of heart shapes. The idea was that people label their cards with the name and tutor group of the object of their affection and leave it for the ‘postman’ to deliver on the day, in order to ensure absolute anonymity. The postman was actually Mr Parker, head of Year Eight, and every year he’d get all dolled up in a ridiculous cupid costume, complete with fluffy wings, golden bow and a white smock-like dress which I was pretty sure must be his wife’s nighty. Mr Parker would come around in morning registration with his sack of cards and there’d be loads of silly shrieking and giggling as he delivered them.
