y girlfriend dumped me on Valentine's Day. I'm not joking. I know what you're thinking. Yes, there were signs but hindsight is always twenty-twenty. She'd been distant for a couple of weeks. I thought she was worried about her father whose heart had just taken a turn of the worst. That's why I didn't think it was strange that she'd gone to stay with her parents for a few days. I took the day off work, planning to drive over there and surprise her. Assuming, of course, that it was exactly what she wanted me to do.

There was a red envelope on the mat under the letterbox when I got up on the thirteenth. I'll open it tomorrow, I thought. Okay, technically she dumped me on Valentine's Eve but I didn't find out until the grand day itself. It didn't downgrade the hurt to level two, I can assure you. It surprised me all right. I couldn't have been more surprised if she'd revealed she's come from Venus to study Earth males and had finished collecting sperm samples.

My first thought was, why did she waste a stamp? Unless it was from a secret admirer. Ho, ho! I opened the envelope. The card had a silver heart with red glitter on the front. I wondered if this was the wrong way round as I looked inside. There was a message. I read it twice. Then read it again, scanning for sarcasm, or a warped sense of humour. Neither of which she'd ever shown in the past. No, she meant it all right.

Dear Dougie, I don't think you're going to like this but there's no easy way to say it. We just don't have enough in common. We're just drifting into living together because our friends and family expect us to. I'm very fond of you but I don't love you. Try not to be too upset. Don't call me. It's better that we don't talk again. Carrie.

You can forget about irony, this was cruelty, pure and simple, in my opinion. What is it they say? Anger, denial, depression, acceptance, revenge. Not necessarily in that order. Something like that. I supposed I'd already finished "denial" by reading that stupid card three times so I proceeded to anger, tearing into strips and flushing them down the toilet. Depression followed. I wish I'd been more imaginative, pissed on the pieces at least. I skipped work and sat down in front of daytime TV. Romance special. Finely crafted for morons. They yakked about love and I took it personally, shouting obscenities at the screen. What I mistook for acceptance had come by that evening. On reflection, I wasn't that surprised. From her point of view I hadn't shown muchÖ what's that word the Americans made up? Commitment. What a bitch. By the end of the day revenge had crept into my thoughts. If not my bitch then some other. There must be plenty out there…

The local rag had a whole page of female losers, looking for similar males, for friendship at first. Perhaps more, later. Katie. 29. Medium build. Bubbly. Likes nights in, eating out and cinema.

Perfect.

The prospect of meeting someone I had never met was exciting in itself. Adrenaline made me indecisive. Should I dress up or try to look cool? I could wear my sunglasses but what if it got cloudy? I looked in the mirror and realised I had forgotten to shave. "Just do it, Tony." I had decided to be called Tony. Dougie made me sound just a little too much like a loser.

Katie was a liar but I didn't mind. I wasn't exactly looking for a life partner myself. She wasn't medium build and liked eating out at MacDonald's. She also knew the "rules" of blind dating. She was prepared to bend them a little. Better and better. This might take so long after all. Katie and me hit it off more at less immediately. This wasn't love at first sight but we talked over coffee, finding common interest and opinions and gradually finding our confidence. It did occur to me, after all this was all over, that it might have worked as a real date. We could have had a relationship. At the time I had only one thing in mind. Well, two, obviously, but some things go without saying.

We went for a walk by the river. "Look, fish!" She pointed into the murky water.

"Yes." Well spotted, dear.

"I thought it would be too dirty."

"It's not as bad as it looks."

"What's wrong?"

"You're breaking the rules. By coming down here, I mean. We should have stayed in a public place."

"Always stay in a public place. Yes, I know. You seem trustworthy."

"You don't know me from Jack the Ripper."

A nervous giggle. "You don't look like a killer. Anyway, I could be…" She felt around for a suitable female figure. "…Jill the Ripper."

I decided to get to the point. Perhaps that's what she wanted. "Can I see you again?"

"This weekend?" I guess she didn't get many offers.

"I'm not busy."

"Come round for a meal. I could cook. You can meet my family. My sisters."

Family? That wasn't part of the deal. I looked at her face and could see a hint of desperation. I realised that she wanted to show her sisters that she could get a boyfriend. Back for coffee at my place wasn't going to be an option. "Look, Katie, you're very nice but the fact is… You must know that you're not very attractive. Physically." I think if I'd punched her in the face she couldn't have looked more shocked. Or more upset. She started crying. "I'm sorry." I should have been pleased but as I turned and walked away, I felt more of a bastard for making her cry than planning to kill her.

When I got home I looked around again, running through the procedure. One thing struck me at once. Blood. Blood would go everywhere. I hadn't really been thinking about getting away with it until then. A little belatedly, I gave it some thought. Some kind of plastic sheet was in order, I decided. And some of that foam stuff that gets stains out of carpets.

She's taller than me, I thought when I saw Mel. "I'm so sorry I'm late."

Jenny (Bridget Jones type, 33, 5'8" medium/slim build, likes films, swimming and reading) put her book down on the table. "That's okay." Her look was ice and her voice steel. Or vice versa. She would like to meet a male, 26-35 for friendship and possibly more. I was already struggling to make the grade.

"I'll get a drink."

"The coffee isn't bad."

It wasn't so terrible, a bit like a rehearsal with the pressure off. We politely swapped life stories, presumably edited, over a couple of cups of coffee, and then we parted company forever. I picked up a few tips about blind dates. Make absolutely certain you know where you're going.

This time when I got home I realised just how badly under prepared I still was. The knife was on the table. Handy, but more than a little unconcealed. It looked, in fact, like a murder weapon waiting to be used. I looked around. Behind the couch? Just right.

As they say, everything comes in threes. Bad luck. Blind mice. Wheels on my wagon. Blind dates, too? I was feeling lucky about Wren.

"Look, let's be honest with each other. I had an image in my mind and…you're just not my type. Okay?"

Now that certainly ruined my evening. My self-confidence hadn't exactly been sky high lately. "Perhaps you should lower your standards. Broaden them, I mean." I was starting to sound desperate. Like Katie.

"With me there has to be that spark straight away or there's nothing doing. We could, you know, still have a chat. Or something."

Now she felt sorry for me! It was too much. No thanks. "I don't feel up to it. Now."

"Sorry." She stood up and walked away.

Spark? "I am Bridget Jones," she told me on the phone. In the flesh, I thought she looked more like Velma, the dumpy lesbian from Scooby Doo.

Home, alone, again. The plastic sheeting on the floor does look suspicious. If I was painting the ceiling where's the paint? I needed something to put my victims at ease. Ideally, I would have liked to take advantage of exhaustion following vigorous sexual athletics. I decided to try sleeping pills in the coffee instead. That way the plastic sheeting wouldn't look so suspicious. I could put it in the corner. Hide the knife behind the couch. Yes, that might work.

It was hard to stay focussed. I was getting further away from my revenge, not closer. Things were going from bad to worse in my every day life, too. I didn't do much except answer lonely-hearts ads and wait for my next chance. They became fewer and further between and months went by. Finally, I got a sniff of a result. Fourth time lucky, I thought.

What comes in fours? Nothing. I was struggling to work my charms over the phone. Daphne was hung up on looks. Mostly her own, it has to be said. "I am attractive. I need a man who won't show me up. Do you see what I'm saying? People tell me I look a bit like Renee Zellweger."

"Oh, good. There's a touch of Hugh Grant about me."

"Well, Hugh, no offence but you sound a bit creepy on the phone. You might want to work on that."

It was looking increasingly unlikely there would be a fifth time. Things went from worse to zero and I seemed to have used up all the Bridget Jones types. Single mothers were out, for obvious reasons. Young clubbers ditto. I considered lowering my standards, since they were already as broad as they could go. I thought about lying about my age. Older women have always made me nervous. I probably was starting to sound a bit creepy. I was certainly getting a little unkempt. More importantly, I was getting out of practice with talking to other people. Colleagues at work seemed to find something wrong, especially the women. I only lived for Fridays, when the lonely-hearts ads were printed.

By August I had to struggle to remember why I had become so obsessed in the first place. The hatred had burned itself out by September. Now it was nearly Christmas and I only had the memory of the anger. The only thing that kept me going was the thought that if I gave something else up because it was hard work it would prove her right. This time I would see it through. Show some commitment. On the bright side, my plan was gradually improving. I had found a nice quiet spot in the country to bury the body.

Christmas came and went. I tried to stay in January, skipping February altogether. Despite the cold, March couldn't come quickly enough. Then the cards started to appear in the shops. Hearts and fluffy animals. I bought a dozen of the most sickly and ritually burned them. The girl in the shop gave me a dirty look.

"I'm incredibly promiscuous, OK? Not that it's any of your business."

She scowled and looked around for the manager.

"I'm leaving. I'm leaving."

I must confess, when I started this I thought it would end up as a suicide note. Then, this morning, three hundred and sixty five days and forty-seven minutes after I had first seen that envelope, everything changed.

I just didn't turn up for work. The way I've been going lately they probably got more done without me. Then the telephone rang. I didn't want to answer but it could be my boss, asking some stupid question or - paranoid - checking up on me. I put on my best sore throat voice. "Yes?"

"Dougie?"

I nearly dropped the phone. "Carrie?"

"How are you?"

"What do you mean how am I? My girlfriend dumped me on Valentine's Day. In a card, for Christ's sake!"

"That was a mistake. I meant it to mean that I still loved you. I just couldn't live with you."

"Then she calls me a year later to…"

"I'm sorry. That was cruel, too. And cowardly. And stupid. I…"

"You what?"

"I shouldn't have done it. I had my reasons. They wereÖ not wrong, just…"

"Incorrect?"

"You're still angry after all this time."

"Wouldn't you be?" I sighed; this was too much like hard work. "What do you want, Carrie?"

"I haven't been having a good time since I… I was seeing someone… After we broke up. He treated me badly. I realised that I had given in too easily. Could I see you? Just for a chat? Just as friends, I mean."

At least at first. This was sounding very familiar. Fortunately, Carrie was nothing like Bridget Jones. "As a matter of fact, I've been waiting for you to call all this time. Yes. I'd like that. This evening, at the Dodgy Duck?" We had met at the dodgy duck. Carrie took this as a sign that I was ready for reconciliation.

"Seven?"

"Why wait? Let's show some commitment. Make it six."

"Six it is." She sounded happy. I smiled to myself. Oh yes, I could do something about that.

"See you then, Carrie."

I put the phone down. God, just when you think you'll never get your chance, it drops right into your lap. Slowly, I got ready. Real acceptance finally came as I rolled up the plastic sheet and through it in the bin. I slid the knife into the rack with its smaller brothers and sisters. The pills went with my murder plan where that card had gone 365 days and 67 minutes before. I didn't need any of them any more.

If I lay back and closed my eyes I could see Carrie at the Dodgy Duck. She would arrive early and sit in our usual corner. Looking her best, made up like a tart. Every time the door opened she would look up, hoping it would be me. I'd be late, of course, then very late, then too late. By eight o'clock she would be hanging around out of sheer desperation, an empty glass her only companionship. Finally, she would give up and leave, humiliated, with - dare I hope? - Tears beginning to gush.