This week’s column is about passion. Valentine’s has just passed, of course, but She Who Knows and myself celebrated it early – on Saturday.
She gave me a funny card with a bulldog on the front, but loving words inside; I sent her a schmaltzy one with a stylish couple kissing and lots of hearts.
“I think it’s wonderful, still buying each other cards,” enthused a woman at the supermarket till, while She Who Knows told me not to look as she popped a card into our shopping.
Fancy chocolates and roses came later, from me to her, of course. After all, what this tradition is really about is reminding loved ones how much we value them.
She Who Knows was so moved she let me watch Saturday’s teatime rugby encounter between England and Wales, while a cottage pie bubbled seductively in the nearby cooker.
It was a day of mixed emotion. No, not the romantic bit, I mean the rugby match. You see, although English naturally, I have also been an honorary Welshman.
This happened while working on newspapers in Shropshire, when I played for a rugby team just over the border at Welshpool. They were a great bunch and with colleague Dave Hadfield, who became a rugby league correspondent, I travelled with them and watched Wales-England clashes at ‘Twickers’ and Cardiff Arms Park.
We even joined in their singing, revelling in applause from impressed but more restrained Englishmen, unaware Dave and I were both Lancashire lads.
That’s where the emotion comes in, you see. Our England squad played heroically like true professionals, but the Welsh performed with real passion - deserving to win, though they just failed. I felt proud of both – and of She Who Knows, as we relished our British beef supper.
In the end, red roses won the day - both in sport and love.
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