This Valentine’s Day – if you adore it, loathe it or try to ignore it – know that love comes in many forms, writes Kerry Hudson.
The most divisive day is upon us. That is, the day of love: Valentine’s Day.
Whether you anticipate it with the zealous enthusiasm of someone who has anticipatorily bought heart-shaped, mini-Le Creuset pots, scorn the imported roses that smell of nothing, or even dread it because it’s a reminder that your romantic life is not where you hoped it would be, there is no ignoring it.
Those red balloons are bobbing on the horizon and in every florist’s window. Perhaps it’s particularly hard to disregard because it falls slap bang in February, when we all need greatly cheering up, no matter how cheesy and cliché-ridden the celebration.
This is my eighth Valentine’s Day with my husband, and our third as parents. These last three years, honestly, romance has just hit a little different.
This year, we’ll take our toddler and our old rescue dog to our local cafe. As usual, our cat, Dora, will follow us down the hill, her collar-bell jingling cheerily as she almost kills us by flitting through our ankles.
At the cafe, we’ll all cram into our usual corner table, order three cakes and share them as quickly as we can before either the dog or the toddler, small, biological bombs, get too fractious.
In the evening, my husband and I will slip into something more comfortable, literally – pyjamas, thick jumpers and bed socks – and probably watch some trashy Australian reality TV. Maybe we’ll go all out on the big-gesture grandeur and order in a McDonald’s. Who says romance is dead? Well, actually, not me.
Valentine’s Days past
My husband and I met in our mid-30s, when we’d both given up the hope of meeting a big love of our lives. Instead, we’d been contenting ourselves with strings of lovely people who were not quite right for us, or us for them.
When we met each other, it was like a tornado careening through my life. If you’re a regular reader of this column, it will probably not surprise you to hear that I am an emotional and fairly intense person. I certainly bring this high-voltage energy to my relationships, too.
Our first summer together, I found a tiny, leather-bound book no bigger than a square of chocolate and wrote, in even tinier letters, the love story of Peter and I. In return, a few months later, when we we were in Paris for me to collect a book prize, Peter went out in the morning and returned with a cast-iron, miniature typewriter, around the size of a two-pence piece, and a headphone splitter.
That evening, after speeches were made, champagne was drunk and I was giddy and overwhelmed, we plugged in the headphones and danced through the streets of Paris to the playlist he’d made of obscure 1950s and 1960s music, as though we were in our own Audrey Hepburn movie.
One Valentine’s night together was spent getting drunk in Stansted Airport. We were returning from Morocco, and trying to get some sleep before our train the next morning.
My husband once made me a home-crafted advent calendar, and inside each window was a peanut shell that he’d cut open, filled with jelly beans, and glued together again
We both smelled of two days’ worth of travel, consistently tried to defy the security guards, who roamed the airport telling us that we couldn’t sit at less than a 45 degree angle (because of by-laws, apparently). We eventually cracked open our duty-free rum, pouring it into Burger King cokes, and settled in for an unusual night, watching the dramas of a school trip to France unfold like a soap opera.
My husband once made me a home-crafted advent calendar, and inside each window was a peanut shell that he’d cut open, filled with jelly beans, and glued together again. I once met him after work with a carefully chosen picnic of all his favourite food when he said he had a tough day. That sort of excess time, excess thought, is quite unimaginable.
Love comes in many forms
Now, romance is him rolling a pair of his big socks over my feet if he feels they’re cold, so I don’t have to get off the sofa. Or me turning the toaster settings back down to three because, I know that’s where he likes it.
Now, romance is waking up in the night to a toddler, kissing each other, saying we love each other and urging the other to sleep a little longer: “I’ll go, you rest.”
The most romantic thing that my husband ever said to me was nothing to do with roses or chocolates, spontaneous trips or fancy gifts. Last year, in the early days of my illness, I was misdiagnosed with a condition that meant that it looked like I would be either bedbound or connected to an oxygen tank for the rest of my life.
Essentially, it seemed likely that my life was going to be extremely limited. I was heartbroken for myself, but also for my family, who would have to have this life by proxy, too.
Peter took me into his arms and said: “I would rather be with you and love you while you’re lugging around an oxygen tank than be with anyone else in any other situation.”
This Valentine’s Day – if you adore it, loathe it or try to ignore it – know that love comes in many forms. In the small gestures, in kindness, thoughtfulness and generosity. Sometimes romantic, sometimes platonic.
I’ve come to realise that love, for me, equals contentment. On February 14, I’ll sit on our sofa, eating my Big Mac, watching some Australians optimistically marry someone at first sight. I’ll look over at my husband and realise that I have everything I need right there.
Kerry Hudson is an Aberdeen-born, award-winning writer of novels, memoirs and screenplays
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