I always thought it was a quaint old tradition, the whole "women-can-propose-marriage" thing that surrounds leap-day, 29th February. In the dim, distant and less emancipated past I suppose it might have had a place, perhaps. After all, it must have been quite useful to be able to pop the question once every four years if Mr d'Arcy was holding back.
But in the 21st century? Surely, women and men are complete equals, even though you're all from Venus and we're mainly from Domino's Pizza. If a girl wants to ask the question, just get on with it - don't faff about waiting for Mr Right to make his mind up.
But when my desk-neighbour informed us all this morning that she had proposed - successfully - to Dave, her significant other, I was delighted. Not just for her personally (although I do know an expert cake-maker) but because I think it's remarkable that concepts like this can survive in the here and now.
She'd even asked his parents for his hand in marriage beforehand. That's classy.
Dave was somewhat nonplussed, however. Apparently she'd jumped the gun - he was going to ask her to marry him when they went on holiday later next month. "What can I do now instead?" he asked.
Take a hint from someone in the tenth year of marital blitz. Sort out the jewellery part of the deal, Dave. You can't fail.