It's Like Caramelized Sunshine. Honest.

My husband is concerned that we are not a particularly romantic couple. What's more, he has decided that this is my fault. He claims a 'fear of raised eyebrows' as his reason for not whispering sweet nothings and reciting Shakespeare from the garden while I lean 'skeptically' out of an upstairs window.

I always assumed that this was just the kind of couple that we are - everything said with a heavy sense of humour and irony - we have discovered the Peter Pan of relationships. No insecurity is above ridicule, childishness is actively encouraged and we are more likely to push each other in front of oncoming traffic than we are to declare undying love on Facebook or engage in slushy, public affection. I'm starting to wonder now, if I have this all wrong and actually, I've just been beating him into romantic regression with my big, metaphorical, cynical mallet.

He said yesterday that he was baffled by a conversation at work wherein the rest of the lads were having a discussion which started with the sentence:

"You know when you just want to spoil the missus, so you cook some dinner and light some candles...?"

Baffled.

"Do couples do that, then?" he asked, incredulous as we walked around a farm with our tiny person. It seems he believes that such evenings are reserved for Hollywood trickery and have no place in reality at all. Now, I know people that do regularly make time to spoil each other and exchange loving glances across dimly lit tables, but I always assumed we were just 'not that kind of couple'. But I'm starting to wonder - is this an important part of every relationship that we're missing out on? Should I be making the effort to buy oil incense burners and books of romantic poetry to recite next to roaring fires on cold winter evenings?

I'm ashamed to say that I'm smirking at the mere thought.

My head is now filled with flashback memories -

Valentines Day somewhere in the early 00's...

Francis: So shall I book a table for tomorrow night then?
Me: Why?
Francis: Well - it's Valentine's Day, isn't it?
Me. Hmmm. OR, we could get pizza and stick a movie on.
Francis: That's not very romantic.
Me: You could put a flower on the pizza?

A day out in Oxford a few years ago:

Francis: I bought you a teddy!
*Produces giant stuffed Teddy from a BHS bag*
Me: Aw, thanks! He's very cute.
Francis: What are you doing?
Me: Putting him back in the bag.
Francis: Why?
Me: So I don't have to carry a giant teddy around in public.

Last year:

Francis: So, here's the ring.
Me: It's gorgeous - thank you!
Francis: Shall I do this properly then?
Me: What do you mean?
*Francis gets down on one knee*
Me: Oh, GOD, no. Get up. We already know we're getting married.

The trouble is, my problem with this kind of earnest language is not saved for romantic (or not so romantic) conversations with my husband.

On Human Planet (BBC), the other day, a man said some honey was 'like caramelized sunshine'. Seriously? How did he manage to get that whopping turd of a sentence out without gagging? 'Caramelized sunshine.' Oh, sod off.

Any emphatic, passionate declarations, regardless of subject matter make my insides scream for mercy. My eyes squint up and I physically recoil in disgust. I would say that I was born in the wrong era, but that doesn't fit either. My intolerance for flowery, sincere language seems to be something I've developed over the last ten years. Prior to that, I could often be found with a note-book, writing the kind of poetry that I'd happily be sick over today.

So what have we learned?

1) We should probably all feel a little bit sorry for Francis.
2) Efforts should be made to be less of a cynical, scathing naysayer.
3) There is no excuse for using the term 'caramelized sunshine'. Ever.