AT A CEILIDH in the romantic wilderness that is Garrabost on Friday evening, I fell into the company of a charming housewife from another part of the peninsula. Bursting with excitement, she told me how she was looking forward to Valentine’s Day. Her beloved spouse had been told not to get her anything, but she knew what would arrive in the morning. A deep freeze.
She assured me it was just what she needed. Therefore, it was exactly what she wanted. Anything else, she told me, would be a pointless, empty gesture.
Her husband, I am sure, is romantic when he needs to be and is also caring and loving, but in a practical way.
Having been lovey-dovey myself about twice in living memory, I began to think back to how a spurt of romanticism changed my life many years ago.
Maybe I was worried that a scoundrel of the parish, one George Gawk, would make a move before I did. I had seen that glint in his eye; a glint seen only if there is the prospect of strong drink or a woman of a certain age. Actually, make that a woman of any age.
Herself had mentioned she was in need of smalls and had wondered when she would next get to rummage in Bhs, her favourite drawers dispensary. I devised a wicked four-part plan to whisk her off to Glasgow to trawl knicker counters but also, secretly, to beguile her with my famous generosity and lure her into the holy state of matrimony.
Part One meant inventing a tale of a cancelled business trip which left me with two return flights to Glasgow going spare. Be a shame to waste them.
Part Two was the shopping. I left herself to browse in Sauchiehall Street with a thick wedge. Meanwhile, I went shopping in Argyle Street.
When I say shopping, I mean I made purchases in a shop at the Kelvingrove end. You may know it. A most welcoming wee shop called the Park Bar. They sell a range of courage-boosting potions which were to prove very useful that day.
Emboldened after shopping like a fish for an hour, I headed for the Grosvenor Hotel, which I had selected as our weekend quarters.
When she arrived at the rendezvous, weighed down with bags from What Every Woman Wants and Pants R Us, she was impressed with the lodgings. Yes, I’m in there, I surmised.
Part Three involved taking her for a slap-up supper to Antipasti, a fine ristorante on Byres Road. How she adored the garlic bread, the so-smooth red Italian vino, the baked stuffed pasta shells with ricotta and something else that tasted excellent, that very fine Italian plonk again followed by heavenly tiramisu and finished off with lashings more of the gorgeous vino da tavola.
It was then time for Part Four. Wibble-wobbling across Great Western Road, I led her to the splendid Botanic Gardens and I began silently rehearsing the vital question. Which word should I emphasise? Will? You? Marry? Or me?
Right, I’m ready. Er . . .
Suddenly, a raucous park-keeper stormed out of a bush and chucked us out as he banged on about how some people have no homes to go to and he had to rush home to watch something called Ra Fitba, Jimmy.
Disaster. I had to strike while the iron was sizzling. Herself had swigged enough vino collapso to agree to probably anything, I figured. I couldn’t let the chance pass. Darkness was falling and we found ourselves meandering up Queen Margaret Drive. How could I salvage our future together from the plughole. I hit blind panic. OK, nothing else for it.
Right there on the pavement in the middle of Kelvin Bridge, I slumped on to one knee and asked her if she would do me the honour and all that stuff. Her reaction was not what I hoped. Screeching with laughter, she was. I blame that Italian plonk. She was in kinks. Bent double. She wasn’t ready for that. And I didn’t expect her hysterics.
Becoming suddenly stern, she ordered me up. Now. But I couldn’t. I had crashed down so hard on my knee, it just locked up. That leg wouldn’t budge. I ended up on both knees as if offering up some late-evening prayers high above the River Kelvin. And about time, too, I could hear my auntie Kirsty Ann saying.
Twigging what was happening, a taxi driver pulled up and he and his passengers wound down the windows and were hushed waiting for her response. But none came.
Then a double-decker bus stopped behind the taxi and soon the traffic was backed up in both lanes as, scarlet-faced, she tried composing herself while commanding me to get to my feet so we could skedaddle somewhere and talk about it.
I couldn’t go through this rigmarole again, not with my wonky knee. Zombified, I stayed down until I got an answer. Any answer. With taxis honking, expectant faces on the bus staring down at us and boy racers revving their engines and calling to her in the most colourful Glesca lingo to say yes so the traffic could start flowing again, herself was in a bit of a quandary.
Finally, with the city of Glasgow nearing gridlock, she caved in. She publicly consented to my eminently sensible proposal and it has been wine and roses ever since.
I haven’t always got it right, though. I went down to Point Street one Valentine’s Eve to buy her card but I stayed too long in the Crit. I lost the card, but I still had the can of WD40 I got in Charlie Morrison’s. I found giftwrap under the stairs. It was a lovely blue and yellow can. She must have been chuffed.
I wonder how Katie Ann is getting on with her Valentine freezer. When she is cleaning and dusting it, she will always be reminded of the loving warmth behind it.
