We’ve been sort of mesmerized by the Winter Olympics and dangerously thin athletes speedskating, one hand behind the back, taking the turns semi-horizontally, and others flying off a ski jump spinning in the air so as to give their mothers cardiac arrest, and downhill events won by a margin of one-hundredth of a second, and all of it taking place in arid hills near Beijing, on artificial snow, and then seeing the Italians win gold in curling, which is like Bryn Mawr placing first in boxing. One astonishment after another, but I’ve kept my eye on Monday the 14th, knowing that attention must be paid.

I am contracted to the woman I love, but the vow to love and honour (at the altar, I whispered the word “obey” to myself) left out a great deal, such as, “Take careful aim at the middle of the toilet bowl” and “When asked what you’d like for dinner, the correct answer is ‘a green salad with oil and vinegar, please’.” Over the 26 years of marriage, other addenda have attached to the contract, including, “Do not give me articles of clothing as gifts, because I will only have to donate them to the Salvation Army.”

I remembered the 14th when I walked into the drugstore to pick up a Baby Ruth candy bar, which is a vitamin supplement for a man on a green leafy diet, and I saw the aisle stocked with garish scarlet heart-shaped trash, gifts so ugly they’d be grounds for divorce. Who buys this dreck? Men who just realised on their way home that it’s the 14th and there’s no time to shop around.