I was in Sainsbury's on Saturday evening, buying 2-for-1 lager for a party I was on my way to. As I'm standing in the queue - awkwardly balancing two four-packs on top of each other and wishing I'd picked up a basket - I notice the woman standing in front of me. It had to be the saddest thing I'd seen in a long time.

She was probably not much older than me, standing in the queue in polka-dot pyjamas and boots, with evidence of tears in her eyes, buying a single jar of Horlicks. On Valentine's Day.

I began to wonder what had happened. Had she been recently jilted by a lover with as poor a sense of timing as a banker demanding a raise? Had it happened sufficiently late that she had no opportunity to make other plans, and was forced to stay at home, alone, on the evening when all her friends were out with their significant others, lording it over her as if being single was some kind of failing on her part? Was the pain too much to bear, so she was going to retreat into her bed with a warm, malted drink and disappear into a dream world that wasn't quite so cruel?

Or maybe she just had a cold.