I don't like romance.

I am not sure why.

It seems a bit false. A bit forced. A bit like you are trying too hard.

I understand that some people like it.

But I don't.

Luckily my husband doesn't either. Although, I probably wouldn't have married him if he did. I simply wouldn't have been attracted to him in the same way if he was romantic.

If he wrote me poetry, bought me flowers or was into public displays of affection, then I wouldn't have chased him.


Perhaps I sound a bit harsh. Maybe I am.

I am possibly tainted by my father's romance. He is a hopeless romantic.

A hopeless romantic who is married to his fourth wife.

I guess that for me, the idea of romance could be linked to him covering up his extra curricular romances. In my mind, maybe romance is an indicator of dishonesty?

If we were to believe what we see in films, we are all romantic. Just waiting for that one special person to come along, our prince charming (excuse me whilst I puke in the bin).

But life isn't a movie. You don't have to do all the things suggested in movies in order for a man to love you. And you certainly shouldn't expect that they will be all romantic like the men in films. You will most likely be disappointed.

I was engaged at 18, to a man I had been going out with for three weeks.

Fourteen years later we are still together.

I love him.

He knows I love him.

It doesn't take grand romantic gestures.

I am proud to be his wife, to hold his hand, to see how wonderful a father he is. Simply to be with him.

I love him more than I did fourteen years ago.

There will be no champagne, flowers or chocolates on Valentine's Day.

We don't need them.

We know each other inside out.

He is my best friend, with benefits.