Roses? Chocs? Jewels? No, I'll ring the changes this Valentine's

My then-partner had 'dropped into conversation' her penchant for platinum rings.

Actually, that's not true. She'd been harmlessly talking jewellery and my autistic, unable-to-read-between-the-lines manbrain had imagined that she'd been trying to drop a hint. Blokes, eh? Hopeless.

And so I'd done what all fools-in-love do. I'd mortgaged my hopes to the future, sucked the air over my teeth like a plumber telling you how much it's going to cost to fix your central heating and bought the most beautiful diamond/platinum ring I could afford.

Bye bye credit, hello overdraft.

The ring was a work of beauty. The diamond had been created over a period of up to three billion years, 150 kilometres deep in the earth's crust. The lustrous, silver-white platinum surrounded it in the gentlest and most subtle of bands. It was sumptuous, like a first kiss; memorable, like the highest high.

I placed it into the pocket of a coat, hid it away and bought my partner another modest gift as a decoy. The special day arrived and the decoy was a hit. That, or so she thought, was that.

"I've left my wallet in my coat," I ventured, apropos nothing at all. "Would you mind passing it to me, please."

Disposed to help, my partner dutifully rummaged around and – ta dah – there it was. Ring-a-ding-ding. Cilla Black popped her head round the door and burst into song: Surprise, surprise.

And this is where I'd gone wrong. I'd made the mistake of buying into the tao of blokedom. Jewellery was something fellas needed to buy to keep their ladies happy, or so I thought.

Over the years, Birmingham's Jewellery Quarter has profited gratefully from my crass naïveté.

There was the bespoke engagement ring for the girl who broke it off two weeks later – the engagement, not the ring. She'd have struggled to do that, the ring was white gold and would've snapped her manicured nails.

There was the Armani watch from Milan that tried to smooth over the cracks of a relationship fraying at the seams. It kept immaculate time as the relationship tore right through. There was the pear-shaped... Gah, you get the picture. Hopeless romantic; loves women but clueless with them.

It took a while to realise a simple truth that Lennon and McCartney discovered back in 1964: Money Can't Buy Me Love.

Money buys something completely different: a love hangover. The American singer Diana Ross realised that after marrying a Norwegian shipping billionaire. Her relationship with Arne Naess ended in divorce and a broken heart. I'll bet he did the ring-in-the-pocket-thing too, silly man.

Nah, money can't buy any love. Any fool knows that. Only kindness brings that.

So as it's Valentine's Day, I'll turn to my most trusted love lieutenant, Billy Bragg.

I'll be the Milkman of Human Kindness. There won't be any grand gestures, roses clasped between teeth or gifts from afar. There won't be an attempt to impress, over-priced flowers imported from Dutch hothouses and sold for three times the going rate. There won't be any chocolates that I know my partner doesn't really like, though she'll pretend to enjoy them to make me feel better. There'll just be a series of simple kindnesses. A compliment here, a cup of tea there; a gentleness here, a thoughtful offering there.

You might think I'm being a cheapskate.

But I'm not. I'm happier being the Milkman of Human Kindness.

And tomorrow, I shall leave an extra pint.