Heading to work on Tuesday morning, I found a handwritten note on my doormat addressed to “My Valentine”. Who could have written it? Did I really have a secret admirer? It felt like something from a rom-com.
Beyond the (second class) postage stamp and the cursive scrawl of my address – which I didn’t recognise and should have been a tell-tale sign, as no man has that neat handwriting – there was little information on the envelope to go by.
