It’s funny how long it can take a man to learn a simple lesson. For example, for years I had assumed that women couldn’t really love flowers, that it was all some sort of conspiracy created by Big Florist in league with Big Greetings Card that everyone, apart from me, had fallen for. On Valentine’s Day I would look pityingly at the men on the Tube clutching a dozen red roses, or the girls in the office with big bouquets pretending to like them. I knew better. ‘She’d much prefer a nice bottle of dry sherry,’ I’d think to myself – and then wonder why my girlfriend looked so cross come 14 February.

My first encounter with the possible link between female satisfaction and flowers came in the 1990s. I was in my late teens, living in Barcelona and trying unsuccessfully to learn Spanish. So unsuccessful was I that I lost my job working in a bar called the Golden Rock Café, a rip-off of the Hard Rock Café, because I could not understand a word anyone was saying to me. The manager would say ‘Henry, tenedor! Mesa cuatro!’ and I would start mopping the floor or give him a cigarette rather than delivering the missing fork to table four. I was Manuel in an unfunny Spanish remake of Fawlty Towers.

I had assumed it was all some sort of conspiracy created by Big Florist in league with Big Greetings Card

I did, however, meet a young Danish lady whom I attempted to woo. When we were out drinking cava, I’d be approached by street vendors selling red roses for la rubia (the blonde). I’d shoo them away gracelessly and resume my clumsy attempts at seduction. The only time I bought her flowers was on Sant Jordi’s Day, the patron saint of Catalonia. On this day, 23 April, the tradition is for novios (lovers) to exchange gifts, flowers for her and books for him. It seems terribly old-fashioned but it’s actually very charming. My novia loved her flowers and I was pretty pleased with my copy of A Farewell to Arms, because I’d run out of English language books and had been reduced to rereading a book of Will Self short stories.

But somehow it didn’t sink in. I don’t think I ever bought flowers for her again. Nor did I buy flowers for any subsequent girlfriend. Then I met the woman who would become my wife. After a trip to Columbia Road flower market in east London, she transformed my studenty flat into a home. It was just like the moment in the TV adaptation of William Boyd’s Any Human Heart where the hero’s wife visits him unannounced at his bachelor pad in Pimlico and she can immediately tell that he has a mistress. It’s the flowers, a sure sign of female presence. A light bulb went off above my head. There is no conspiracy, women really do like flowers.

After this epiphany, I began to brave flower shops, which I found overwhelming, rather as non-wine bores must find a trip to Berry Bros & Rudd. ‘What sort of flowers do you want?’ the florist would ask me. ‘I have no idea, pretty ones I suppose,’ I’d reply. ‘How much do you want to spend?’ Again I had no idea, how much is a lot? When you’re not interested in flowers, any amount seems like a lot of money. The staff would look at me with pity, thinking: ‘He’s probably done something terrible and he’s trying to make up for it with a bouquet.’

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I’d return home sheepishly, carrying a bunch more suitable for leaving on someone’s grave. Or worse, the kind of thing that might look good in the lobby of a German bank but hardly screams ‘I love you’. I learnt, very slowly, that not all florists are created equal. Some have taste or rather some have taste that chimes with my wife’s, and others don’t. A good florist should spot an innocent abroad and steer him through the potential floral minefield with a series of carefully chosen questions. 

These days, however, I am getting quite good at choosing a bouquet for my wife and – I’ll say this quietly – I rather like having flowers in the house as long as they don’t smell too pungent. Furthermore, I can share a bit of hard-earned wisdom with you. Remember it, because it’s romantic dynamite: flowers aren’t just for big occasions like Valentine’s Day or saying sorry because you came home drunk. You don’t actually need a reason to buy flowers for your wife! In fact, it’s even better when there isn’t one. Why did nobody tell me this before?/>