Comfort and Joy Read Online Free Page B

mostly – that I know we won’t be buying cheap ham together holding
     hands when we’re eighty-two? And why do I assume the fading of romance – the perfectly normal fading of romance – is somehow
     fatal, against ham? I bet most of these old couples went through some rough patches. Like, you know, loved ones dying in wars,
     like the Blitz, not just some low-level pissed-offness. So actually there is no reason why we shouldn’t buy cheap ham in our
     time of decrepitude. I want to buy cheap ham with Sam. Sam’s my man, for ham.
    But anyway: it’s true. The passionate, easy tiger, grr-grr bit is petering out. There’s a bit of tiger and a bit of grr, but
     – how can this be? – I don’t get that ache of longing any more. I just think, ‘Oh look, there’s Sam.’ Occasionally I think,
     ‘Oh look, there’s Sam, who is quite easy on the eye.’ Or, ‘There’s Sam, who makes me laugh, which I find attractive.’ Or,
     ‘Sam has said an intelligent thing, and that appeals to me.’ And then I carry on with whatever I’m doing. This seems really
     pretty incredible, considering the longing I used to feel for him. I used to watch him when he didn’t know I was there – coming
     up the stairs at a party, once – and feel dizzy. I used to think, ‘Oh my God, that’s my boyfriend. That man – that clever,
     funny, charming, talented man, whom I fancy to the point of giddiness – has chosen me. Me! Out of all the gazillions of women
     in the whole gigantic universe. Me!’ And then I’d want to laugh wildly, hahahahahaha, to roll around the floor kicking my
     legs in the air and whooping with incredulous, delighted joy. I didn’t, obviously. But I wanted to. Inside, I whooped. I whooped
     on our wedding day; and when Maisy was born, I cried with happiness and whooped some more.
    And then, slowly, the petering. Oh, it kills me. On so many levels, really. But mostly because it’s so sad. I’m like Kate:
     I believe in romance. But I don’t want to be like Kate and show
the strength of my belief by marrying four different men – at the last count, though I think she’s pretty settled with Max.
     Two should suffice, which means I’ve run out of options: it’s the end of the line. (My friend Amber sang that at our wedding
     – ‘The Trolley Song’ from
Meet Me in St. Louis
, which ends, ‘And it was grand just to stand with his hand holding mine/ To the end of the line.’ Everyone thought it was
     a sweet, camp choice, but I knew.)
    I also know perfectly well – I’ve read the books, and as I keep saying, I am an adult – that the kind of romance I believe
     in is silly, unrealistic, schoolgirl, Emma Bovary-ish. Penny novella, cheapo stuff, with
coups de foudre
and manly chests and sweepings into arms and elopements and never any boredom or nappy-changing or sleepless nights or wee
     on the loo seat. I
know
. I know I’m silly. But it slays me. It pierces me that the early bits are always the best bits, that you go from falling
     into bed every hour on the hour to being lucky if you feel like it once a fortnight. I don’t mean just sex – I mean that feeling
     of being transported, of your stomach plummeting three storeys when he gives you a call. The first time I found Sam’s wee
     on the loo seat, I stared at it reverentially. I thought, ‘That is His wee, on my lowly loo seat,’ and I felt privileged.
    And anyway, there are things you can do. I can’t guarantee that Sam and I will be buying ham when we are tiny, withered old
     people, but I do know how to maximize our chances. I know – I have observed – that the secret to a happy marriage, apart from
     the obvious stuff like saintly patience and award-winning acting skills, the ability to cope with disappointment, and a dramatic
     lowering of expectations, is to put out regularly. Oh yes. You may frown, and I’ll grant you the concept doesn’t exactly thrill
     my good feminist heart, but it’s true. Put out regularly, seem