Last week was rough. No two ways about it. Not only did I have to survive a Valentines Day in the presence of delusional girls who think that meat-head footballer really cares about them, but I had to endure the thing that any self-respecting bachelor fears most: the wedding singles table.

Ah, the singles table, home of the perceived modern day social lepers. To make things worse, my sister, who happened to be the bride, wouldn’t allow me to bring anyone with whom I wasn’t in a “serious, committed relationship.”

I tried to explain to her that as a fully liberated young bloke, it’s my right to abstain from those wholesome, emotionally fulfilling relationships that seem to be all the rage now days, and still be allowed to bring someone to a wedding. Alas, the bride, who seems to be all about vowing away her life of late, failed to see my point of view.

I approached the singles table with a certain amount of trepidation. As I got closer, I could see the uncomfortable glances, the socially awkward conversation. I seriously considered giving the waiter a twenty to make sure my wine glass was never empty throughout the night.

I scared myself by thinking that perhaps I should settle down with someone, get a white picket fence and a dog. At least that way I’d have someone that I could talk to at weddings.

My mind wandered back to Valentines day last year, and my efforts to separate myself from the pack. Sick of the clichés, I decided to give this girl I was interested in some fresh, home grown basil.

As I sat on the train out to suburbia, I clutched the sweet, fragrant herb in my hands, careful not to disturb the delicate ribbon I had lovingly put around it. Quietly confident, I foresaw the overflowing reception I’d get when she saw how much thought and originality went into that grandiose expression of attraction.

How could I be so wrong? In the time it takes for that dodgy uncle at the wedding to get drunk and start trying to grope people, I was told that I’m insensitive, careless and just don’t understand her. My verbose agreement with the last part didn’t seem to help my plight.

Suddenly, a nervous laugh breaks my daydreaming and snaps me back to the singles table. Surely, it’s worth putting up with the social lepers if it means not having to trek out to suburbia to be abused. Plus, I can keep drinking the wine the waiter brings out without fear of judgement from anyone I care about, and I get to keep all my basil for myself. This ain’t so bad.