This is a lighthearted post, so please don’t read if you are easily offended.

My friend, who is a relationship counsellor, commented, “What happened to the English’s sense of romance? None after Shakespeare and Byron!”

Her next sentence wiped the grin off my face.  “Applies to English women, too, dear. Too practical. Always kids and kitchen.”


I work at being romantic – I leave love notes for my partner in his high-energy bars (that I bake with love)  and in his trouser pockets. Once, he ate my note without noticing it.  And often those notes ended up in the washing machine in the back pocket of his trousers.

I put a love note in his wallet and he gave it away amongst his bank notes when he paid for something or other.

He bought me thirty pink roses. I was thrilled. Why so many? I was trying to work out the significance of the number. “Don’t get too excited, Jac, the flower seller was closing his shop for the day and sold me the whole job lot,” he commented. “Was cheap, from that shifty-looking guy in Soi Nanai.”

Or the Valentine flowers that came two days late, bought from the petrol garage, with the cellophane and price tag still attached.

And often, when I read to him, he falls asleep!

“I’m listening, with my eyes shut!” He would protest. What about the involuntary snore and the mouth that droops open unbecomingly, eh?

When I read a poem to him in his mother tongue (learned at great expense because I am lousy at languages), he hooted out in laughter until tears streamed from his eyes. “You’re trying to order an apple cake?” He chortled. “No offence, Jac, but stick to Indonesian, hey?”

OK. My lot in life. Be happy with what I have. Do not long for Latino professors at Oxford.

Then when I opened my email, I realised, my half-English partner is romantic.But in a different way.  For he had loaded up my Kindle with new books, books that he thought I might like …. though hmm, two of those books are free!

Love you, my Tyson Fury.

Screen Shot 2016-10-14 at 20.56.38.png