A tale of love and a certain unusual obsession

A short story from our Londonia channel - silly, for a change, think we are currently witnessing enough dystopia, thank you! And within the story for fellow London fans, a large red chunk of nostalgia . . .

 © Kate A Hardy 2025

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jYbPfD4ZcqE&t=130s

Valentines day

Breaking the time-honoured tradition of not even noticing that this much-hyped day is passing, we are going out FOR LUNCH. Incredible. No sign of a delivery man staggering under the weight of red roses at the front door, but it's a start.
I just had to post a picture of, I forget which, bridge in Paris where breathless, intoxicated lovers pause from a pink world of passion, and clamp a small padlock engraved with a few meaningful words onto the link fence.

                    


'How wonderful', I had breathed, observing all these trinkets when we were visiting that magical city, a couple of summers ago. People must travel from thousands of miles with this idea of romantic gesture carried close to their hearts; or perhaps rush to a Cordonnier (cobbler-type business) on a whim, padlock in sweaty hand after being caught in a torrid holiday romance . . .
This heady, romantic idea was somewhat squashed by a feature on Telematin this morning, however.
For a price, you can order on the internet, a padlock, (size, colour to be determined) with your engraved message. Then presumably some French bod will go and whap it onto the fence along with the rest of the orders.
Come on! Where's the romance in that.
I don't know . . . Goes into kitchen to put kettle on . . . 

blog for a rainy Sunday afternoon

The weather forecast didn't say rain: gloomy grey blanket cloud-cover yes and sunny intervals . . . haven't seen one yet, and I've been checking the sky.
Nope - grey, varying shades of, and steady rain; 'set in for the day' as my mother always quotes her father as saying. Thinking weather, reflecting time, jobs done for the day and the house is silent without the sound of piano and bread tins rattling.
I don't think I've done a romantic-type post before, so here goes.
Before I met Mark we had both had our fair share of mess-ups: minor and spectacular and were deliriously happy to have finally stopped all that and got down to some serious stuff, so to speak.
I so clearly recall the first time I ever saw him - playing the accordion dressed in a stripy t.shirt; a trio I think it was, but I can't recall the other instruments. My mind was far too occupied forming a mental picture of him that I would then carry around with me for some time after.
Fast forward a year or two and we were living together: me, him and the accordion. It just clicked as they say. Yes we have niggles - I do wish he would put the electric toothbrush on its stand; he can get a little domineering in the kitchen - talking about cooking here, otherwise . . . err, nothing comes to mind really. He probably wishes I was a little less technology-phobic, maybe I ramble on a bit sometimes about plants or suchlike, but I can tell when he's glazing over . . . otherwise, nothing, as far as I know. Well, you can tell me dearest if there is, on your return.
Why does it work? Sense of humour: hundred percent important, same view on the world, music, art, nature, walking, the sea, our house and garden; letting things unfold without a plan as such, 'the boy' of course. I still carry that image of Mark in the stripy T.shirt and I still feel the same way.

Limerence

Now there's a word you don't know, eh?
No. I didn't know it either and nor did various bookish friends inc Mark.
I was looking up something about the psychology of love, as part of a paragraph in my book, and found this word. It actually means the state of euphoria and what we consider 'falling in love' when you meet someone . . . hot, so to speak, or actually, beyond hot: you might feel moved to write poetry, send locks of hair/red roses etc . . .
Apparently it's gauged to last about six months: then the offensive socks, annoying whistling in the bathroom stuff kicks in. Either it can blossom into true lasting love at this point, or withers away into intolerance and looking at other hot people.
Anyway, I think it's a beautiful word and am happy to have made it's acquaintance.

This totally voluptuous flower says it all. I was seduced by its dessert plate-sized flowers when in the garden centre buying something mundane. It is a distillation of every heaving bosom moment from every Barbara Cartland novel, not that I've read any . . .

Ages and stages

This is our boy. Now twelve and looking a bit cute with his untamed blondish hair.
He announced that he had a problem today — nothing bad he assured me, just that some girls had said their friend loves him . . . Suddenly the whole next stage of life for him was in front of me: love, longing, rejection, angst.
Luckily, Ezra is firmly into keeping fish, drawing and gardening at the moment and the girl/or, boy thing is not even a blip on his horizon. He is convinced he won't get married, has his house all planned out, and has decided to downgrade from a Jaguar to something a little smaller in order to be able to spend more on fish-keeping.

Of course the love thing can be fairly straight forward.
My cousin is married to the first man (boy) who asked her for a date at the age of sixteen when we went to the local cricket club disco. They are happy, have two wonderful children, superb house, did everything in the right order . . . others, such as myself, made a huge emotional messes for years and years until finally getting it right. I am however greatly relieved not to be married to my first 'love' — Luton town-supporting, moped-riding, depressive person with horrible domineering mother.
I can remember the total joy on my mothers face as I told her I had decided to get out of the relationship, even though we jointly owned a hideous, hand-painted Mini.

Oh, to be twelve again . . . actually I'm not sure if I would want to be, forty-nine seems OK, even though I told the (French) doctor the other day that I was eighty-nine; he remarked that I seemed in excellent shape for someone of that age . . .