As an adult I’ve always felt pressured to make an effort for Valentine’s Day meals, but as a fresh-faced 18 year old I wasn’t so fussy. Whereas some folk say it with flowers, I was more likely to say it with flour.

At the time I was plying my trade in a distinctly second-rate heavy metal band (not a good start) and on 14th February 1997 we were off to London’s LA2 to play at the romantically titled ‘St Valentines Day Massacre’ sponsored by the equally charming music mag Metal Hammer.

I was 18, bubbling full of hormones and this was my chance to impress my first ‘proper’ girlfriend with a morning Valentine’s gesture that only Shelley and Keats would truly understand. (I’d had a girlfriend the year before but we’d severed ties after she refused to let me use the chocolate body paint she’d bought as a Valentines gift. I ended up eating it on toast on my own like Nutella – how erotic.)

As we were leaving for the Big Smoke at 9am, I hastily arranged a romantic Valentine’s breakfast for my loved one and I… at Little Chef for an hour before. Yes, this quintessential British roadside institution was to be our very own Paris…

The conversation was excited, the food was greasy, and the damp condensation dripped off the window onto my jumper. There was a slightly older couple on the table next to us with the strongest Scouse accents in the world. Their declarations of love for each other showered us in saliva and bits of chewed food and it was only the laminated menus that kept our food safe.

But I thank you Little Chef, for that perfect Valentine’s Day full English with extra bacon and a side order of French toast. The coffee was good too. We split up a week later…

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