IT'S a novel thought that, for £25, you can send a man weak at the knees this "valentine's". Not St Valentine's Day, not plain Valentine's Day or St Valentine's, but just valentine's. Not even a capital letter to its name.

It would seem that the writer is unimpressed by the date, yet the whole thing is aimed at making me believe that the power of love, inseparable from St Valentine's Day, is now in a bottle.

Finding a soulmate doesn't happen as it did in fairytales - "star crossed lovers and prince charming don't exist" it goes on. Not only does the prince not exist, but he isn't worth capital letters either. What a pantomime.

But will just wearing a particular perfume tempt the man of your dreams out of the woodwork, or from wherever eligible males hide, and knock him for six in your favour?

I can't give you an opinion as the writer didn't include so much as a fragranced page to give me a clue and the major "notes" mentioned - grapefruit and two types of orange - sound more like a fruit salad than something to dab behind your ears.

On top of all that, perfume is more personal even than the clothes we wear.

A friend and I have learned the hard way to warn each other what we've bought, our tastes in clothes are so similar, but we can't wear the same perfumes. What wafts delightfully in her wake can smell like sink cleaner on me. And, presumably, vice versa.

The recipient of any passing waft may also have distinct views on what it would do to his knees.

I've got quite used to Sir dodging out of checkout queues or saying: "I'll just be over there," as he hurries away. I know he's caught a whiff of a very popular, fairly expensive perfume with a spicy, eastern note to it. If he sticks around, it'll trigger a hay-fever-like reaction.

Well, I suppose that would eventually weaken his knees but, if knee-weakening was the wearer's aim, he'd be too blinded by tears to see if she was worth the trouble.

I make no bones about it, I met Sir on a blind date. As some young showjumper had been inconsiderate enough to fall off her horse in the last minutes of the agricultural show I was covering that day, by the time I'd chased up her name, injuries and condition and got the bus home, I had about nought seconds flat to get ready for this unknown escort. And, agricultural shows being held in the height of summer, that meant my precious seconds were spent in the bath, simply to get warm again.

What perfume did I wear? I don't remember, but probably Elizabeth Arden's long-gone Mmoire Chrie, which had replaced my teenage days' Hypnotique when I started earning. He can't remember noticing, but reckons it must have worked anyway.

Even if I am "living in domestic bliss", however, I could still "set the temperatures soaring this valentine's".

Maybe, but in our domestic bliss, I travel the more traditional route, via the stomach. It'll have been pancakes with sugar and lemon last week, rather than knee-weakening perfume on Monday, I feel sure.

* If you do want to go in for a bit of knee weakening, the magic potion is Cacharel's Amor Amor.