Continuing this entertainment fortnight when I'm sharing old pieces I had in The Times, here, by special request from my brother Pete, is this one:
He
loves me!
Here comes Valentine’s Day
again. How many of you with long-term partners are expecting to receive a card
oozing with loving feelings and brimming with compliments?
The publication of Ronald Reagan’s letters to Nancy last
year prompted a Times reader to write to the paper quoting some of her
husband’s offerings in contrast. “You may be an old goat,” he had written, “but
you’re my old goat.” Women all over the country must have laughed grimly in
recognition. I did.
Can you top this gem that my husband delivered as we sat in
the late summer sunshine ? "You know, sitting there with the light behind
you, you look quite attractive. For your age. From this angle." Or this
one, said as I was trying on a new jumper: “You look quite slim in that garb –
it must be an optical illusion.”
What is it with long term partners? Do they have an
automatic complimentectomy after two years of cohabitation? Being more
charitable, maybe they think it undermines the integrity of the relationship to
be anything other than completely honest at all times. And if they do find themselves
slipping into rave revue mode they feel they have to tone down the comment by
qualifying it. Yesterday, I found a note my husband had sent with some flowers
when I was in hospital after a mastectomy, and I quote:
These look terrific, but not
as terrific as you.
And then he’d written
( This may be overstating
the case. )
He’s
not insensitive though. He does realise that ageing is difficult to come to
terms with, and that couples should give each other kindly, supportive boosts
from time to time. One day, as we sat doing the crossword, he said, "The
inside of your eyebrow looks youthful."
"What?" I spluttered.
"If I squint, the inside of your left eyebrow looks
quite youthful. It's wrinkle free." Then he smiled, and his imaginary tact
lights started flashing. He thought he’d done so well.
His
latest attempt was - “Your back is one of your best remaining bits”- but it just
made me feel like an ancient ruin.
Working
from home, I rarely have to brave the world of power dressing. Unfortunately, living
in an empty nest, I have to depend on my husband’s feeble efforts if I need
reassurance about my appearance. On going to a festival where I was due to give
a presentation, I asked if I looked OK to stand up in front of a lot of people.
He replied rather anxiously: "How far away are they going to be?"
Last week, when I was going to an important meeting he asked
me what I had on my eyes. "Eye
make-up" I explained.
"Why
?" he said.
"So
that I don't feel like such an old hag," I said.
"Why
aren't you covered in it?"
I used to feel sorry for my teenage children when they had
unsightly pimples in very obvious places. On coming down to breakfast,
mortified at the new blemish, and desperately wondering how to disguise it for
a day at school, my daughter would be greeted with: "Did you know you
had a huge, nasty spot right on the end of your nose?"
Living with an incorrigibly candid man can be
psychologically bracing, but at least when he says something complimentary you
know he means it. In our house we have a game where we go through each member
of the family and say, if they were an animal, what animal would they be? Or
alternatively, what piece of furniture, or what type of house?
One
day we used cars as our reference point, and I was delighted to be described,
not as a Morgan, or a Mercedes, but a Land Rover. The pile of magazines my
husband keeps under the bed to leaf through last thing at night are
well-thumbed back copies of Land Rover
International. In his eyes a Land Rover is reliable, versatile, unbeatable,
fun and, above all, an object of desire.
P.S.
Me: "What did you think
of my article in the Times about your compliments?"
Him: "Well, it wasn't
nearly as boring as I was expecting."
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