How I treated the man

The sun caught the branches of the tree outside my bedroom window Sunday morning. It was a glorious sight. What I knew for sure, in the immortal words of Oprah, was that I wasn't feeding my man that tarte. I had prooved too rich for even my dad and was residing in the bottom of their fridge awaiting its next unsuspecting victim.

Having only a box of sweet potatoes in the house, which he had bought me Wednesday night-presenting them to me with joy like a cat a dead rodent, I was stuck what to give him. What man gives a woman sweet potatoes as a gift? Yet I was touched; it was the first time he'd found them in the supermarket and was glowing with his discovery.

In the end finances ruled. I had in the recesses of my purse a gift card from Marks and Glorious Spencer. Problem solved. I wouldn't have to cook and we could have something a bit different.

Scanning the aisles was fun, we built meals in our imagination. We rejected toad in the hole, spotted dick and steak and ale pie. We focused on complex fayre- Moussaka and salad. There was a debate over dessert. The him chose strawberry trifle- he's a classic English man afterall is said and done. Paying was painless. Plastic actually stops you feeling purchases. Waltzed home and shoved the thing in the thing in the corner of the room that actually gives out heat and waited.

He was happy. He went to his folks smiling and content although i'd over done it with the perfume and his brothers smiled knowingly when he said he'd visited a friend.