A cup of tea in the morning to help me wake gently and face the day. The driveway gates left open and the outside light shining bright for me when I come home after a night's teaching. They sound like small things, these little kindnesses.
He doesn't sweep me off my feet with grand gestures or lavish gifts. But he has driven me to work during thunderstorms when my own phobias have prevented me from doing it myself. He fixes my punctures. He fixes my aunt's punctures. Actually, he fixes everything. He accepts my utter squeamishness and deals with the vomit clean-ups and the dead birds. He comes to my tap performances and acts as my roadie.
He wanted to surprise me once with a pushbike. A friend passed on a red womens bike and he spent ages doing it up as a surprise, his little secret-in-the-shed that only he and the boys knew about. And then when it was finished he decided that my original chunky purple bike was far more me and fixed that up instead. I remember that as one of the most romantic things he's ever said to me.
He remembers (mostly) to tape shows for me when I'm out working, to turn my electric blanket on before bedtime on cold nights and to check first before he organises a night out or a weekend motorbike ride with his mates.
He's a male, he's fallible. He doesn't always get it right. But the small things he does for me, willingly, reliably and lovingly add up to a great big love.
