Valentine's Day love letters are more romantic than cards - Gaby Soutar

Is it cheating to read your old love letters?

A woman in bed reading love letters in bed, cinematic light

I don’t think so, though when I had a rummage through the newly re-discovered Shoe Box D’Amour, I made sure that he was elsewhere.

As the door shut and he scooted off on his bike, I furtively unfolded the Nineties missives.

Maybe I will make it an annual pre-Valentine's Day ritual. Usually, browsing ancient paraphernalia, like childhood drawings, makes me feel a bit melancholy. When you’ve lost parents, that happens.

In contrast, I found this quite uplifting. At least I can say I was alive, before the middle-aged grind made existence so utterly boring.

I’d forgotten about the excitement and hope that letters like these inspire.

For one thing, it turns out that, to a rare few, I was fanciable, back in the day. My ego was fattened up, 30 years down the line. I’ve had an invisibility cloak on for so long, I’d forgotten there was a time before silver roots, irritability and a perma-scowl. As I have approximately three physical photos of myself from that time, don’t ask for actual evidence of any youthful beauty.

I wonder if they keep my letters in their own equivalent shoe box? I doubt that my notes were as eloquent as these. They certainly wouldn’t be frank, because I always played my cards close to my chest.

Considering that they were written while the exes were only in their late teens or early twenties, they’re impressively open, amusing and perceptive. And hardly any spelling mistakes. They’re not too gushy either. I wouldn’t have gone for that aged 17. I’m still totally averse to cheesiness. As the kids say these days “ick”.

I didn’t give the boyfriends any credit for their efforts. I was never content and always restless, despite being a serial monogamist.

They are long letters, too. There are a few that consist of three or four rambling pages of A4, some with loose handwriting that keels in one direction, as if exhaustion has set in. It probably had, since most of them start with something like; “I’m writing this at 2am, after getting back from the pub”.

There’s another that’s scribbled in an ever-decreasing-circle on the inner sleeve of a 12-inch single. Do you spin the record, or your head, right round, baby, right round? Whatever, it’s impossible to read, but points for creativity.

The only one that I’m unimpressed with was from a short-term fling. Until I read the letter, I’d forgotten that he used the word “cuddle” and called me “pet” and “sweetheart”. It was never going to work. I only ever answer to “hen”, so that one is going in the recycling bin.

The others are quite moving, and angst-ridden, too, because I was a rubbish and non-committal girlfriend.

Some feature drawings in the margins or illustrated envelopes and even a touch of collage. In the top right corners, there are scribbled addresses that make me reminisce over freezing student flats and empty beer cans on windowsills.

Other communications are in the format of mix tape sleeves. There are no particularly romantic songs on these lists, but I’m no ballad fan, so that’s okay. I would never go out with anyone who listened to Chris de Burgh.

Instead, there’s just a compilation of shared favourites, with the song titles and matching artists written neatly within the margins. I don’t know where the actual cassettes are. They probably crossed the hi-fi bridge years ago, hand in hand with CDs and most of the vinyl.

I suppose these are slightly less sentimental than the letters, which I do feel guilty about holding on to, because each feels so candid, even though they’ll have forgotten every word. Their authors are all partnered and sprogged up now.

Still, I shouldn’t feel too bad, as my mum only recently binned her collection, most of which were from a time before my dad came on the scene. She met him relatively late in life, so there was plenty of time to sow her wild oats. Now in her Eighties, she got nearly 50 years out of reading those, if she did ever get them out of the drawer. I wouldn’t know, as she probably waited until we all went out and we weren’t allowed to have a read before they were done away with.

I hope that younger generations continue to write letters – even Post-It note sized ones would be better than nothing. I always remember when a friend of mine ordered a fish supper from a chippy, asked for a salt sachet, and the girl behind the counter wrote “I love you” on it. That’s the tiniest billet-doux of all time, but it sort of counts, even if my pal did invent the story, which was always my quiet suspicion.

This type of appreciative correspondence shouldn’t just be reserved for the young, either. One of the most celebrated love letters of all time was written by Johnny Cash for June Carter Cash on her 65th birthday. It’s a good example of the genre, with minimal cheese.

I hope I get one, when that date comes round. In the meantime, this Valentine’s Day, I don’t think a boring shop-bought card is going to set my heather alight. Down with manufactured sentiment and those big red hearts.

When he gets back from his cycle, I’ll let him know that I’m expecting an old-school letter on Tuesday.

Illustrations and mix tapes are optional.