My wife and I have only ever dated by accident. After our third date a decade ago (well, what I thought was our third date) that she texted me asking, ‘So was that just dinner and theatre, or was it “dinner and theatre?”’ To this day, she insists that she had no idea what was going on (despite my sudden interest in her after two years of just being acquaintances, the Skype calls, the hand-painted postcards… actually, I’d better not start). A few years later, early on in our marriage, when we were still childless, young professional Londoners, we thought we’d wildly treat ourselves to dinner out on a Thursday. We were baffled, though, as to why our local Italian restaurant in Tufnell Park was so busy on a weekday – until we realised it was 14 February and that, for the first time in our relationship, and against our shared will, we were celebrating Valentine’s Day.
We were baffled, though, as to why our local Italian restaurant was so busy on a weekday
None of this is to say that I’ve never romanced her, dear reader.
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