I was getting up yesterday when I noticed the date and nipped down to interrupt my husband, already at the breakfast table, with a kiss and a Valentine wish. He glanced up from his newspaper and reciprocated. That was Valentine done for another year.
The day before I had mentioned to my husband that I needed a tennis ball (bear with me) to put in the drying machine to try to restore our towels to a semblance of fluffiness. This may turn out to be another internet myth – we shall see.
Around midday, he appeared in the garden (I was battling with the roots of a pot-bound rhododendron) and offered me this.
In 1978 we were expecting our first child. Parenting classes for fathers included the information that during childbirth your wife might suffer from something called ‘back labour’. This could be rather ‘uncomfortable’ but the appropriate (? don’t ask me) use of a tennis ball might help relieve the pain. He had purchased this ball and packed it, along with many other recommended comforts, for the expected long haul. In the event there was no time to use any of these aids and our first-born arrived without need of a tennis ball or much else – but here, preserved all these years, is the very one.
I call that a Valentine present.
Edit for Andrew… two years later.