This week’s issue is, perhaps like us all, somewhat pre-occupied by Valentine’s Day. What is it that we are celebrating? What is this thing called romance?

As a verb, ‘to romance’ implies being insincere, engaging in flattery. A ‘romantic’ novel is make-believe, a flight of fancy.

Across all the modern and older definitions is the notion of something imagined, extravagant, chimerical. In French a ‘roman’ is a novel, a work of fiction; that is not real.

The irresistible fantasy of romantic love has become a heavily marketable reality. Magazines, talk shows, psychic hotlines, self-help books - an entire industry - live and feed off our romantic inclinations.

Valentine’s Day is perhaps the epitome of this industry. What we’ve come to refer to as romance is rather the indulgence in what we imagine love to be.

So what about all the romancing that will be going on this week: the flowers, chocolates and cards? Are these tokens of affection not real?

Indeed they are, precisely because we believe them to be.
So when the day has passed and the roses have wilted, it is love that endures, without fuss or commotion.

Love that has no need for expensive gifts or fancy dinners, that’s the stuff that really matters.

Ends