Sunday, 15 February 2015

time after time

I have always been a sucker for a good romance. Aside from Nancy Drew and countless other girls-solving-crimes novels, I loved to curl up with a good romantic novel. To be honest, I still do. After stumbling through the first couple of pages - striking up a relationship with the protagonist; then comes the moment that you start to stroll through the chapters looking through their eyes.  So for a few hundred pages I could be whisked away to northern moors desolately in love with a tall dark brooding landowner, or starting a new life across the pond in NY because of a broken heart, or maybe mixing with the trendy fashionistas in London before jet setting to Hawaiian shores. All in the name of love.

It didn't take too long into my adult life to realise that love doesn't usually happen like it does between the pages of a novel. But deep down I still had a hankering for those moments of love suspense; will he call or propose in the middle of a bustling city? Which one is really long term material - him with the hotshot job, sharp suit, and Sundays reading The Times in a boutique cafe or him with the guitar, leather jacket and a smile to die for? In the safe arms of a paperback, dear reader I can marry both!

Memories of a hurt heart or bruised ego can often be rekindled when following the escapades of a modern day Jane Eyre, but I can also find comfort that I may not be the only chick on the block who has had toe-curlingly embarrassing moments in the boudoir. Bridget Jones' huge pants ain't nothing but a thang when you realise that the dernier 75 tights you are wearing are not just because it's cold but that midweek shaving nights need to be scheduled more regularly!

Now that I am cozy in the haze of wifery and motherhood, these forays into romance are few and far between but a welcome distraction from the constant 'where are my's and 'did you move the's which buzz through TwickersTowers. I long for those special days when I break up for the school holidays a day earlier than the 3G and get to curl up with a massive mug of tea and drown in a love story with heels, holidays and hunks of heroic gorgeousness.

And talking of heroic gorgeousness. Rewind 12 years back, Boxing Day, a cold and rainy night after hurtling from London to Newcastle, I grumbled and groaned at the GeordieLad asking me to go for a walk. To stretch our legs after our long drive he said. My hair will be ruined I said. A pause whilst family members ushered me out of the door. Casting a quizzical gaze at lovely Grandma who was normally tucked up in bed by now, I squelched none the wiser up to the top of a mound we now call Wylam Hill. After waxing nervously about how we could see the whole village from here, the place that he grew up and blah blah blah - look I was cold, I'm a Southerner it can't be helped - he then produced a shiny diamond. And all my moaning stopped. To his request of 'Will you marry me?', I blurted a 'No way!' which may well have been heard across said village.  Before confirming that in fact my Bill and Ted outburst was actually a yes, I ordered GeordieLad to squish his romantic knee into the mud and cowpats to do it properly. I was having my romantic moment good and proper.
Will the GeordieLad never learn... rain + afro = grumpywife?

The idea of going out for Valentines has longed gone for us because the 3G are not yet old enough to kick us out the door for a good time. And we always said that once we had a wedding anniversary to celebrate; there was no need for remembering the 14th Feb. Maybe it's the fact that you can't shop in Tescos without tripping over the red carpet of cards in every aisle on the way to the milk and bin liners. Maybe it's the fact that we now get glittered heart cards from the 3G reminding us of the date. Maybe it's the fact that we couldn't possibly let a 14th go by without just a little card, a dinner a little bit more special than usual, an extra glass of wine and a cuddle in front of a film even on a school night. 

Sometimes it helps to climb out of the romanticism found in literature; stop the blur of day to day mundanity ; moments of real romance can sometimes be found right where you forget to look for it.

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