Ava Rose Robinson-Fairs

You arrived on a lovely sunny day, Tuesday 14th May 2013, weighing in at 5lbs 13oz and just the very sight of you, when your mummy cuddled you for the first time, you made your daddy cry. Your daddy had never seen someone as beautiful as you. I have to pinch myself because I can’t believe someone as special, strong and wonderful as you could be my daughter. But you are and your daddy loves you beyond forever.

You spent your first few days in hospital because the midwives had left you inside mummy’s tummy for longer than twenty-four hours and that mummy also need some antibiotics whilst giving birth to you. Daddy remembers how when those nasty needles were poked into your little hands, that you didn’t make a sound. Already you are a very brave and strong little girl. Daddy just can’t wait to bring you home, so that all of our friends can come to see you.

To my darling missus – Sarah Lou – I am forever in awe of you. You performed miracles that left me speechless and for someone who has no pain threshold, you surprised everybody with your resilience, your strength and your determination. I cannot tell you how proud of you I am right now because my heart is brimming with love for you because you brought Ava Rose to us safe. These mere words would be nothing more than footprints on wet sand that is washed clean by the ebb and flow of the waves. You are the most amazing person in my life and on the same pedestal is Ava – our beautiful daughter

The wonder of you

Wow, it’s been a long, long labour. My poor missus has endured 28 hours for our little baby to insist that she stay there for a while longer. Last night the midwife said that we would be taken to the Delivery Suite around midnight, as this is when Sarah would have been almost 24 hours since her waters broke. However, there was no one there to look after her and they gave her some pain relief and took her down at 5:30am this morning. Bless, her she’s not slept properly for at least two days and is really fatigued, knackered.

At 7:30am, she’d spent an hour on an epidural drip, the midwife did an examination and found Sarah had dilated to 6cm, without any inducement and have therefore decided not to give her the inducing hormone for at least another four hours – that takes me until 11:30am.

I’m completely awestruck by Sarah’s strength of character. For someone with no pain threshold, she’s done a sterling job with minimum fuss, no wailing, no screaming and no calling me all the names under the sun. I, once again, expected all of this and more. These last two days have surprised me because Sarah clearly has more strength than anyone gave her credit.

I couldn’t have asked for the right person to carry my child. I couldn’t have envisaged Sarah’s resolute adherence to her midwife’s instructions that have so far got us to this stage. Even now, she responds like the trooper she is, despite being in pain, despite the lack of sleep, lack of decent food and without seeing her trusty cats.

No matter what, Ava comes today three weeks and one day early. And I haven’t done anything that would remotely make things any better for her, except sticking by her side throughout. Now the next chapter of our lives is upon us and seeing how Sarah has been these passed two days, I know it will be nothing short of amazing.

I love you so, so much Sarah Lou.

The arrival?

The missus’ waters broke at 1:00am this morning. I expected torrents, gush, deluge, a flood, but it was nothing like that and I was somewhat moved by it. For the record, we’re about 3 weeks and 2 days before the 40 weeks. I have had a sneaking suspicion that the baby would arrive before the next Bank Holiday – Monday 27th May 2013 – but I didn’t expect her to arrive so soon. I say arrive, the little mite is still stuck in labour. The missus is dilating and when she was measured – at 2am – she was between 2-3cm. This morning, hooked up to a small box that produced a seismograph of activity both in the missus’ contractions and the baby’s heartbeat, I could see the contractions were between 2-3 minutes apart. So even though the labour could potentially be a long one, I think I’ll be a proper dad before the day is out.

Seeing my partner in pain doesn’t sit well with me but there isn’t anything I can do that would ease it and all the soothing, psychological talk won’t help any; in fact the missus would simply tell me to shut up and leave her alone. However, the pain she is going through produces a result that instantly calms her, calms baby (particularly after what they will have been through), but I am forever grateful to her and she is held in awe because I cannot perform the miracles that she will today (or whenever Ava decides she will want to introduce herself). And for that I cannot thank her enough, nor will I ever be able to.

I love you so, so much Sarah Lou.

Just another of those days…

What is it about the sunshine that brings out the fucking idiots? And it seems, this week, that one idiot in particular has been severely affected by the glorious sunshine that she has totally lost her mind.

Yesterday a customer saw my colleague. This woman claimed that the Housing Department paid for her gas and electricity. They never have, before you start asking me how to go about this. Of course my colleague corrected her in as polite a way as she possibly could and as the ground slowly opened up to swallow this customer whole, existential World War 3 commenced as this customer took severe umbrage and pronounced loudly that “everyone here is going to be suspended.” Brilliant. You demand us to pay your utilities or you demand our bosses to suspend us, thus rendering the service useless for two weeks not just for you but for all of our customers, just because you didn’t listen properly? This same customer called in twice today because now the place that she has moved into is a death trap and utterly unsuitable (as if we didn’t think that would ever happen…) and that the housing department have left her living in a property despite knowing she has a life threatening disability and knowing that her dire circumstances are life and death. In these circumstances, we would advise the customer to give us back the keys and resubmit another housing application form – simply because there is no surplus housing stock to accommodate someone on a moment’s whim. Not being funny, but that’s procedure and, coincidentally, she had no photographic evidence of said shoddiness. A visit to the local social services office also proved fruitless and thus she returned, unperturbed but even more seething. The same information was given. Again. And we all received the same threat. Again.

It galls me that when people look round a property, they do so with their eyes closed. Don’t give me homeless, or I had no choice. There isn’t anything in this life that would tempt me to move my family into accommodation that is utterly unfit for habitation – homeless that day or at any time. I’m not stupid either. When I move into a new house, it is de riguer that decoration might have to be done around my furniture, and my previous landlord never decorated for me so why should I expect the local housing department to do it for me too.

I await her next visit with mordent glee.

Then I arrive home from work. The missus has decided that I’m suddenly going to her mother’s after I told her last night that I wouldn’t be going. No offence. Jesus I even gave 24-hours notice this time. And that kicks off a round of words.I really couldn’t be bothered with anything, not after today. Sometimes I come home from work just wanting a rest. I know the missus is shattered from her pregnancy, but I’m similarly not stupid enough to put myself in the firing line for another pointless argument, when the missus could simply have used her brain and stayed at home rather than trailing around the city centre, hence the reason she was so tired….

I’ll be glad when the baby is here. At least the whining the baby will do will be “acceptable” as the little one doesn’t know any different. The missus’ constant whining will not stop until either I die first or she does… That goes without saying…

Friday, Friday – Why me?

It’s not every morning I’m disturbed whilst reading, particularly when I’m on the bus. Normally other passengers will leave the blobby, dishevelled tramp alone to whatever crap he happens to be reading – the Metro newspaper, The Sun, a crap novel, Twatter or Facistbook on my phone. Paradoxically said mediums and formats usually distil early morning catatonia, thereby confusing my brain to stay awake; only the holy triumvirate of blonde, tits and ass  would fully awaken me. Those brave enough to suffer the aggravation of a snotting, snarling beast at 6:30am are either stupid or damned stupid. Such a beastly time of the morning though – I’ve never got used to 6:30am, even when I was on the dole.

It must be said here: if you see me reading on any bus journey I’m either easing myself awake or winding the day down.

So this morning marked a slight difference on the daily commute to work in that some massive ingrate sat beside me and squashed me into the window. Touche, for I’m not exactly Mr Slim, but this…this…thing he was fucking huge. He made me look like a Weight Watchers Loser of the Month (what other accolade could you award a dieting fatty?): each finger on his pudgy hands were as large as my thighs, his shoulders wider than the aisle he’d walked down, his arse the reason the sun doesn’t shine at night… But what did he want? The whole fucking seat? If he did why didn’t he pay for two? As he crashed down to my left, he glowered at me as if I were the reason his shoes smelled. “Sorry fella,” I sneered back with as much panache and verve as 6:30am would allow, “I’m as fat as you, there are plenty of seats at the back. And besides my missus would kill me for being caught in a clinch such as this.” I’d like to think he was taken aback by such a catty remark and honestly thought this would be the earliest flattening I’d ever suffered in my life. Instead, the glower softened, faded and was replaced by a wobbly bottom lip and a sulk bordering on genuine hurt. “You need to get a life, mate” was the pathetic-hearted response.

What? What now? Are you trying to tell me that a man of his hugeness hasn’t suffered swingeing comments about his girth? He got on in Bramley for Christ’s sake – a place redolent for its ne’er-do-wells, addicts and general nitwits. I’ve had customers at work comment about my rotundity through spits of animosity, but the six-pack still hides underneath this blubber or this is just my winter fat, usually suffices. And I don’t foist myself upon the delicate knees of anyone at 6:30am, well not least without the decency of at least asking permission first. This guy was massive. He could have taken up three fucking seats! There was an entire row of them at the back of the bus. Honestly, you should have heard the bus groan when he got off in Armley. I swear the suspension moaned a sigh of relief. And I’m being coincidental more than I am being funny.

As I swallowed my third mug of coffee in the staff room, his comment came back to me: “You need to get a life, mate.” What did he mean by that? In fact, what does anyone mean by saying something like that?

Literally, I have a life, it’s not a particularly good one, but it’s a life nonetheless: for I live, breathe, eat, shit and sleep. And some would think that is rather unfortunate. Metaphorically I wonder whether he meant I needed to see things from his POV. But if that was the case, then he might have wanted to use different phraseology. Or did he mean that I needed to be like him to appreciate what he went through? Or did he wish to extend the corporeal morsel of amity by becoming obesity buddies? Wow, did he really think I thought so appallingly of him? Yes a fat man is likely to begin ticking all the right boxes in my stereotypical thinking, but I didn’t need his life to appreciate anything about him. For fuck sake it was 6-fucking-30am and I had my breakfast to think about!

But really, what could be discerned from get a life? It’s an unctuous phrase that is a paradox to consider – why would I want a life different to the one I have forged ahead with? Why would I want to live your fucking life? Why would anyone want to live mine? We are all different from one another for a good reason. Baby, life is what you make it, sang Talking Heads. And David Byrne is right. I just wish my customers would remember that when they complain they don’t have the money for all the bills they keep receiving. Well, if they bear in mind that I don’t either, only I have work to think about and, currently, no kids, then maybe they’d be half way to an epiphany. Still, they’d need a dictionary to look up the meaning of the word “work”.

The beers supped in the creation of this piece were not wasted.

HMV – The end of an era?

HMV Leeds

Fuck!

From the point I first purchased Ghost Town by The Specials just after my 11th birthday in 1981, I have always made it a point to check out music’s new releases on a Monday. Be that whether it was trawling Woolworths, Virgin (or as it became known, Zavvi), Our Price, Borders, MVC Entertainment Ltd or HMV. If I couldn’t do it on a Monday, for instance due to work commitments, then I would do it as soon as I could on a dinner break or on a day off. It became an unwritten rule that I have always followed, much to the chagrin of subsequent missuses.

There is nothing like holding a product, inspecting the artwork, the tracklisting and then taking it to buy. Be that whether it was an LP, a 7″ single, a cassette (but never a cassette single) or a Compact Disc. And you can’t do this with a download. As technology marches on, these formats will be increasingly rare within the next thirty years. However, with the death of the high street music store, these formats may be dead sooner.

Downloads are becoming more prevalent and, to be honest, there is no reason why this format shouldn’t go on and on; the internet has revolutionised the way we buy our music, even our weekly food shopping, yet the internet has only been used publicly for the last twenty years. Such was the march of the internet, that the music retailer and, indeed the wider music industry, got caught on the hop when it came to downloading music and video and had to do something quickly for the much mooted and still unproven piracy-problem.

Since this revolution, all of the above retailers have steadily gone bust because they were extremely reluctant to change the way they made their money, thinking that the download was just a phase. How wrong they obviously were. And like everything else, organisations like Amazon made frightening amounts of tax-avoided money in such a short time; not to mention that they were able to undercut the high street retailer by employing minimum staff. The same goes for the Tesco’s, Asda’s and Morrison’s branches that stock the chart fodder at massively reduced prices (the fact that you’ll pay a fuck load more for their versions of household beans, peas and spaghetti etcetera notwithstanding). However, when you go to a supermarket’s music section, don’t involve staff in conversations about their product, unless it’s the beans you’re after.

HMV have undergone several transformations in the last couple of decades – from wanting to smash their competitors into smithereens to having more floorspace given over to technology than music. However, they have been too slow in keeping up with the ever-changing marketplace and now it looks like curtains, which is a shame for the several thousand staff they employ, so soon after a lacklustre Christmas period.

So came with great dismay that HMV have called in the administrators this morning; the last bastion of the high street entertainment retail, where I could wile away hours wandering around the Leeds branch and usually coming away with something. Now it looks as though I have no choice but to get with the times or purchase everything I want from the labels themselves (which is a possibility, particularly with the Indie Labels) or I’ll have to purchase from fucking Amazon, where I can’t inspect the cover, can’t guarantee my disc casing will arrive in the post not smashed, where I can’t chat with staff who liked to think they knew what they were talking about.

To be honest, I think HMV’s largest stores may escape unscathed, but then I remembered thinking that about Zavvi (formerly Virgin) and they closed to become totally web-based. However, one ray of hope in Leeds. Jumbo. They have lived fought all of these giants and now they reign supreme. Don’t even talk to me about Crash Records. Though it has to be said they have both survived this too, but for how long?

Now, unless a buyer is found that can kickstart HMV’s brand and entice the customer to part with their ever dwindling cash, it looks as though checking out the new releases will become something that I honestly, truly will miss.

Girl becomes Woman

If only it was this simple…

Frozen food – is it safe or not?

This post is done out of spite. Apologies to those who have an idea because there’s a fridge/freezer manual in the house, but hey…

It’s not everyday I have to argue about a scientific process that I’m not particularly aux fait with. But then I don’t usually have to argue about frozen food being out of date, however, my pregnant missus really trawled the depths today.

Aunt Bessie’s beastly Yorkshire Puddings declared themselves out of date in October 2012 – well according to the packet they did and the missus decided they had to be thrown in the bin. Instead of just allowing her to continue with her brainlessness, I argued the point. All I received for my warbling was rhetoric, pregnancy and potential poisoning. Oh and I was a dickhead.

Admittedly I started off on the wrong footing by trying to explain cryogenics – a process I know even less about than refrigeration. “All those silly rich bastards who freeze themselves hoping to be resurrected in years to come, do you think they still age? Can you imagine a cure for life being found in a million years time? Don’t you think it would have been hardly worth the cost?” You see, questions, questions. Arguing is never good if all you have is questions.

So what follows is a layperson’s explanation for refrigeration. (Fuck me, it’s like being back at fucking school…)

A refrigerator is a common household appliance that has a thermally insulated unit which draws heat from inside of the fridge, keeping it below the ambient temperature in the room where it is, usually to zero degrees Celsius. Modern fridges have a dial so that you can control how cold you want the fridge. Lower temperatures in a confined compartment lowers the reproduction of most bacteria – therefore chilled foods will usually last a little longer because of a reduced rate of food spoilage.

Freezer units do the same job of removing heat from the compartment, but they maintain a temperature below zero – domestic freezers will get down to around -10 degrees Celsius. Food stored in freezers is safe for upwards of 6 months and sometimes beyond, depending on the types of food stored in freezers. When you freeze food, reproduction of bacteria stops almost completely – hence why food that is at least two months out of date on a packet will still whet an appetite, however the taste might not be so good the longer the food is stored. After six months of being stored, it’s usually better to throw the food away. If domesticated fridges worked at temperatures below -10 degrees Celsius, food stored in freezers would be able to be stored indefinitely, though the taste would be somewhat banal.

How do you know your freezer is working? Simple. Is the product frozen solid? If so, your freezer is working. Unexplained defrosting, that is not common with a damaged door seal for instance, generally means your freezer unit is fucked.

Under no circumstances do you refreeze food that has already been defrosted. and you must always ensure that your product is thoroughly defrosted before cooking – unless the packet says you can cook from frozen. Again, this is to do with reproduction of bacteria. Contrary to popular myth, frozen food has no detectable aroma, even if it has been outside the fridge for a mere few minutes.

Below is a table. To work out how long you can store things in your freezer, check the stars on the side or reverse of your freezer (they all have them).

• [∗]  : min temperature = −6 °C (21 °F). Maximum storage time for (pre-frozen) food is 1 week
• [∗∗]  : min temperature = −12 °C (10 °F). Maximum storage time for (pre-frozen) food is 1 month
• [∗∗∗]  : min temperature = −18 °C (−0 °F). Maximum storage time for (pre-frozen) food is between 3 and 12 months depending on type (meat, vegetables, fish, etc.)
• [∗[∗∗∗] : min temperature = −18 °C (−0 °F). Maximum storage time for pre-frozen or frozen-from-fresh food is between 3 and 12 months

So, as my freezer unit has all four stars, pre-frozen food and frozen-from-fresh food will last for up to twelve months from the date I put it, or someone else put it, in the freezer.

Hope this clears up the confusion.

Bah Humbug. I Hate Christmas.

It’s simple – I hate Christmas.

Stress and aggro all for one day. Streets clogged with panic buying fools who have either purchased the wrong present or duplicated something someone else has bought or those dolts who have completely avoided buying anything until the mast minute. (Didn’t they realise Christmas was fucking coming?) Once-per-year shoppers who have no concept of queueing or no concept of going with the flow of the walking traffic in our city centres. A public brainwashed by commercialisation. A public at odds, not realising they are flying in the face of the supposed religious context of what the day should mean (religiously).

Let it be said that I#ll try not to foist my beliefs upon my child(ren); if they decide to follow their old man then that is for them, I hope they understand why they are doing it. But at the same time, I don’t want all my future Christmases to be centralised on my hatred of it. Christmas is for kids (or at least that seems to be the way it is heading), whilst I want some of my children’s wishes to come true, I don’t want my children to become totally and utterly materialistic; but getting a young child into understanding such concepts is difficult. For the best part of a whole year, they hear “No” as an answer to many of their demands. Could I really say no to a simpering, big-eyed infant who is relying on me to give them the best time they can expect? The answer is yes, because it gives the child a level playing field. Whilst we can all have a list of things we’d like, we don’t always get everything. And you’d be surprised how quickly children pick up on things like this, without even understanding the concept. But then kids will want a million things and need for none of them without realising that either.

I know my resolve will soften when my child arrives, but as the years go on and the child grows, my resolve will harden to today’s levels.

Why do I hate Christmas?

The answer is simple. I hate the peer pressure. And this stems back from when I was a child. When I returned to school after the Christmas holidays all my gifts from all my family members were denigrated and laughed at, no matter the expense, no matter the thought put into the selection. I was never a jealous kid (not that I can remember), so when my friends reeled off a list of presents Mount Everest high, I also felt my humble presents were somehow completely insignificant. It got to the point that by eleven years old, I refused to enter the discussion. I know kids can be cruel, but I internalised many things back then.

This also forms the reason why I never single out something I want when people ask me about my Christmas presents; the missus tells me I’m difficult to buy for. You choose to buy me something you think I would like. I may drop several hints, but I will never single something out, like a child will do with myriad things.

Think about it: you choose something because you think I like it; you have carefully thought about it, weighed up the pros and cons and probably spoken with others to ensure no one duplicates [it]. That is how to purchase for Christmas. However, when I have done this in the past, my gifts have been looked down on. So now I give money. That way I don’t have the hassle of buying presents.

Throughout the stem of this post, you can see money has played a large part of it. And whilst I’m not religious in the slightest, I cannot remember money playing part of the Nativity – except Jesus’ gifts. If you are of a Christian denomination, it must be gauling to find current news programmes taken up with reports on early highstreet sales and the government’s current austerity package hitting retailers and customers alike. Christmas simply appears to have become nothing more than a cash cow that fat cat executives get richer from. It gauls me further when I see that the same fat cats don’t give their staff a decent break or a decent pay packet. And we end up with myriad advertisements coagulating a crap, repeat-filled televisual listings announcing sales kicking off sometime after midnight on Boxing Day. I can usually hear the groans and feel the stress from the staff having to open their branches whilst suffering the obligatory hangover.

So why can’t Christmas just be about families and their enjoyment? Why do many taxi firms increase their fares simply because it’s Christmas? (Yes I’m aware many taxi drivers have a Christmas to celebrate themselves.) Yesterday, I had a great time at the missus’ parents. I enjoyed a sumptuous dinner with the missus’ sister’s family and cracked the occasional gag whenever the mood took me. The missus’ mum did a marvellous job. I stewed in my own hatred of the period and hoped for something better on the telly, but I did a better job at not being a miserable twat.

My brow will soften, but forgive me that I couldn’t regale you with anything that might have happened yesterday. Because I wasn’t paying attention.

A-Z of the Missus

On Wednesday 31st October 2012, me and the missus have been together, living in sin, for eight years. It’s therefore only fair she gets a post devoted entirely to her.

Argumentative - Whenever there is an argument worth winning, she’ll argue her case. Even if we’re debating something not requiring an argument, talking about something pertinent, she’ll vociferously argue her point and try to beat me to death with anything that is within her grasp.

Beautiful - That just goes without saying. Check out the photo below.

Caring, Compassionate, Considerate - I honestly don’t know anyone who encompasses these three adjectives. When I first met her, people tried warning me off, saying she was aloof and shallow. It didn’t take long, once our relationship started, to discover these three wonderful traits. And to discover how wrong the naysayers were.

Devoted - Another trait. I couldn’t ask for anyone more committed.

Energy levels - She has none. The job she does isn’t particularly heavy or physically arduous, but it is mentally taxing. Getting her do anything around the house, help with the shopping etc requires her to have rested a full eight hours on the sofa from the last arduous task she performed. Which could have been as simple as just getting out of bed.

Football - She hates it. By far the best footie-related statement from the missus came during the 2006 World Cup. Picture the scene, we’re all sat in the Malt Shovel – me, the missus and about nine or ten of our friends and their partners – front row seats, singing England on, Sweden equalise and the missus said: “Sony Ericcson won’t be happy about that will he?” Speechless.

Girlie - She has a festoonery of teddies; she adores pink; she doodles flowers and Forever Friends bears. She spends a zillion hours getting herself ready for a night out, even if it’s to a grotty pub. None more girlier.

Hypochondriac - She has suffered all ailments worse than anyone else. Ever. She may only have had partial symptoms of whatever disease, but she’s had it. She only needs read something anywhere…

Integrity - She has this in abundance. I have not met anyone who is as true to their word as the missus. If she says she’s too tired for anything, then she is. She says what she does and she does what she says. Well, almost. She might double or even triple book social occasions, but that is because she doesn’t want to upset anyone; she simply cares.

Jovial - The missus has a beautiful sense of humour that wasn’t so apparent when we first met. Since being with me she has had to endure endless mickey-takes that have sharpened her funny claws. And even though she has blurted out all my secrets, I’m not annoyed because it was done with her sense of fun and mischief in mind. There is nothing finer to see than my missus with a mischievous smile on her face.

Karaoke - The only reason she goes to the pub, the only reason she’ll try a new place out. She has her fans in all the places we have the occasional drink at and they all say the same thing: She should be famous.

Loving - Whenever we have a nasty argument, we mention a few home truths that bring on a temper or I’m having one of my moments where the missus is copping a temper-tantrum from me, a simple apology is all that is needed and whilst not forgotten, I’m amazed how someone like this can be in my life. Wouldn’t harm a fly and she dotes on the cats.

Moggies - They love her and she loves them. It amazes me that cats will gravitate to her in the street, yet they’ll run a mile when they see me. Of course, she adores both Poppy and Bella – our two feline children substitutes.

Simply: The Best…

Non-domesticated - Doesn’t do the washing or ironing. Though when she does the washing, it has to go through three separate washes before she realises the items have to be pegged out or hung up to dry. Hates doing household chores and will deliberately organise girlie evenings out for Friday evenings (the household chores are usually done during the weekend) knowing she’ll be too hungover to give a hand with the chores. The shopping is too heavy to carry, therefore it’s a man’s task. And so is vaccuuming the stairs. And taking the bins out.

Oh well - I wish I shared the missus’ pragmatism. Whenever something goes wrong, it’s never dwelt on; things were meant to be that way or there was something we missed – back to the drawing board.

Premenstrual - She’s not shy about who knows it’s that time of the month, even if you’re a complete stranger.

Queer - According to the missus, all blokes are queer, in the closet and dying to come out; that is until she knows you’re not. And even if you’re not, you still are until she knows you’re not.

Remarkable - She is expecting our baby. I am amazed at the daily changes she endures to nurture our soon-to-be-born little one (okay, there are still over five months to go). I know that this particular word will take on a more endearing meaning as she adapts to motherhood. Out of anyone I know, she will do a grand job. She just doesn’t know it yet.

Safe - The missus does not take risks and she doesn’t want to know about possible risks either. For instance, she mentioned something about hearts stopping and how she found that frightening. I mentioned that the heart stops as many times as it beats. To her that’s risky and she verbally beat me up for it. She hates the thought of flying anywhere in case there are suicide bombers on board and doesn’t like travelling backwards on a train. I dare say if we took a boat trip, she’d be looking for icebergs, even if we were cruising around the Mediterranean. Her safety extends to the guidelines that are sell-by, use-by and best-before dates on food packages. She hates the idea that prior to 1990, use-by dates in the UK weren’t even used.

Talented - She has an amazing singing voice. Now you’ll just have to take my word for it, because I’m not allowed to upload stuff she’s done on karaokes and she won’t upload stuff to Youtube she’s done either. It guts me that she could end up not being noticed.

Un-ladylike habits - She has a few of these, but by far the worst is picking her nose and occasionally eating the detritus on her finger. I just wish that sometimes I didn’t see it.

Vivacious - Again, I don’t do stick-thin. So this goes without saying…

Worldview - Doesn’t have much of a worldview that extends beyond Farsley, where we live, and Devon. I once said we’d go to Vancouver for our holidays and she asked “Can we sail there?” I replied: “You set off now and I’ll meet you in three months time.”

eXceptional - I couldn’t ask for a more equal partner. She is my strength where I am weak and she supports me where I need back up.

Young-looking – Look at the photo above. Does that resemble a 34-year-old woman to you? No, me neither.

Zzzz - She’s always tired or sleeping, usually on the sofa just as soon as she’s out of bed, unless she’s working. Anyone would think she’d had a rough day!

Yes, I’ll probably get my ear bent for this, but I love her to eternity and back. There are those imperfections that could be improved, but she wouldn’t be my missus if she was too perfect. And besides, it’s not as if I’m that perfect either.

Love you babe.