So for men – at least so the myth goes – this coming Wednesday should feel like Friday 13th and Armageddon all rolled into one. Yes, February 29 marks a leap year when, as tradition has it, women can propose marriage.

Now if one were to believe the thumb nail sketches of men as portrayed in television commercials, Wednesday will be a day when Jack-the-Lads who are roguish, rakish and dangerous to know will stay in bed, lock their doors and plug in their iPods for fear of being asked those four words – ‘Will you marry me?’ Of course, truth is, most men would be delighted.

Being naturally ‘yella’ and painfully fragile, the thought of asking for a girl’s hand in marriage naturally places our own sense of masculinity directly in the firing line.

If she says ‘yes’, we look like gods; if she says ‘no’, we’re poor, pitiful wretches washed up on the shore of some Gilbert O’Sullivan hit.

So a woman’s proposal represents a win-win. If we think she’s great, we’re realising her dreams, and if we think otherwise, we let her down with such compassion and heartfelt empathy that her girlfriends all squeal at our sensitivity...

It’s a no-brainer, frankly.

What I think must be awful, however, is when the shoe is on the other foot: ie, when a women has the kind of boyfriend who insists on making his proposal in public.

Don’t get me wrong, those stories of men getting down on their knees in front of unsuspecting girlfriends while surrounded by a cast, crew and audience of a West End show are always worth a smile, but I can’t help thinking: 1. They’re doing it just to make themselves look cool, and 2. If you care for someone that much, why turn that expression of love into a circus spectacle?

The most romantic – true – story I know is of a couple who decided, together, on the spur of the moment to get wed in New York, ‘stole’ two witnesses off the street, made their vows in City Hall, hailed a Yellow Cab to a movie theatre in Greenwich Village where they watched Woody Allen’s Annie Hall then treated themselves to an ice cream in a Brooklyn deli. And 15 years on, they’re still together. Still penniless. Still happy.

For what it’s worth, I actually believe in marriage; it’s just the short, sharp fall back to real life after the wedding that scares me.

l Oh and apropos of nothing, can I just tip my hat to Oxford City Council, which, after reading my column last week on the shoddy state of Oxford’s toilets, has now invited me to lend my own ideas – and hopefully yours too – on the best way to refurbish the city’s conveniences. Please let me know your views because let’s face it, good community starts with clean, white, gleaming bowls.