Jonny McCambridge: The St Valentine’s Day massacre – Cupid misses his target with the squeaking present

I tend to reproduce the method I use when buying wine – don’t buy the cheapest one in the shop but aim for a bottle priced slightly above it. Something which will not batter the old bank balance too much, but which will also not disgrace me in public.

I select a bunch of flowers in the mid-price range. As to the flowers themselves, well, some of them are white and some of them aren’t. There are, I believe, some roses in there, and some flowers which are not roses. That’s all I’ve got to say on the matter.

I move into another aisle which is crammed with gifts to celebrate St Valentine’s Day. I select two cards, one which I can give to my wife, and one which my son can present to his mum. I also want to get a present for my son to hand over. Something which will be deeply profound and touching, representing the unbreakable mother-son bond, but which is also inexpensive.

There are chocolates galore, smelly candles and mugs. We already have a cupboard full of ‘World’s Best Mummy’ cups and enough candles to get us through countless bleak winter evenings, so I keep looking. I notice a small yellow cushion which has the message ‘Hug Me’ inside a heart stitched on to the fabric. We like hugs in our family; sometimes it seems that son and mother are virtually joined at the hip, engaged in one long never-ending hug.

“Ah, perfect,” I mutter, placing the cushion in my basket and already shifting my attention to what I will buy for the Valentine’s Day dinner.

I have written before about my difficulties in selecting appropriate gifts. As it stands, I feel that my realms of creativity (and my bank balance) are still recovering from the excesses of Christmas.

I also know that Mother’s Day and Easter are just around the corner. I never want it to sound like the process has become mechanical, or that I am just ticking a box, but it would perhaps be fair to say I am not bringing my best stuff to mark the annual commercial celebration of love and romance. On the other hand, I know that my son enjoys the significance of gift-giving and the sense of occasion, so I want to make enough of an effort to keep him satisfied.

It is the morning of St Valentine’s Day and we are getting ready for work. I take my son aside and we scribble our affectionate messages on the cards. I note that there are a few withered and crisp petals among the bouquet of flowers. I remove them and try and rearrange the blooms, to present the illusion that they are in fine and robust health. My son gathers the gifts and we head upstairs.

Presents and cards are exchanged, as, inevitably, are hugs. My son and wife seemed pleased with the arrangement and I allow myself a small moment of self-congratulation that I have done well, and also made it through another bout of present-buying without significant disgrace.

The little yellow pillow is mounted with some ceremony on my wife’s side of the bed. It is at this point that I notice there is a label attached. For the first time, I examine it. It reads ‘Pet Face – hug me dog toy’. There is also a cartoonish image of a canine on the cardboard.

It takes a moment for the full level of my foolishness to become apparent. I have bought my wife, as a gift for Valentine’s Day, a toy marketed for a family pet dog.

I read the instructions on the back of the label. It says ‘It is the responsibility of the pet owner to decide if this toy is suitable for their pet. Pets should be supervised when playing with toys. This toy is strong but not indestructible.’ It then adds in bold, capital lettering ‘THIS IS NOT A TOY, KEEP OUT OF REACH OF CHILDREN.’

I consider the best way forward. I could say nothing and maintain the façade that it is an appropriate and tender gift. However, it seems better to front up now. I show the label to my wife and admit my error. Thankfully, she sees the funny side and both her and my son are soon overcome with helpless mirth at daddy’s latest disaster. I assure her that I’ve got a lovely Valentine’s night dinner planned and we move on with our preparations for the day.

Later, some of my friends in WhatsApp groups, are comparing notes on how they fared with buying flowers and gifts. There are a couple who only remembered the date on the morning and had to make urgent dashes to the supermarket to get what was left of the flowers to cover their blushes.

I console them that it could have been worse, they could have bought a dog toy for their wife. I send a pic of the offending item and get several laughing emojis in response.

Then I get a message, from a colleague, which I do not expect.

“Does it squeak?”

I am nonplussed. I have never owned a dog and this had not occurred to me.

“What are you talking about?”

“If it’s a dog toy, does it squeak?”

I set my phone aside and walk upstairs, my blood now running slightly colder inside my veins. The yellow pillow is proudly on display in the bedroom. I begin to examine the item, squeezing it between my hands. Inside the soft interior I can identify a small solid lump. I exert pressure at this point. Then I do it again. And again. And again.

I walk back downstairs and begin to compose a new message.

“I can confirm that it does squeak.”

I am already looking forward to Mother’s Day.