It was with a certain trepidation, my brothers (but not sisters as is of matters to do with the love that is more physical than charity that I speak). Or, at least, that once was more physical. Marjory and I seem to have been successful in dampening down the unnecessary excesses of ardour of late.
But this is, to those that mark the times and the seasons, Valentine's Day. Among the so-called Beaker Community next door, it is rarely mentioned. Flowers and cards have to be snuck into the building under cover of darkness, lest Eileen should notice and get annoyed that she has no sweetheart of her own.
But this year Marjory demanded a mark of love on this day. Not the sort left by the activities in a popular book I shall not mention, and which Marjory assured me she had burnt after I saw it. But a proper token.
But how could I square my conscience? To give a card on the feast day of a reputed priest of Rome - that renascent Babylon? But I worked out a compromise. I produced an card on my Gospel Preacher's Publisher package, with an heart from a responsible Christian clip-art web site. And I wrote in it a Biblical motto, combining a reasonable modicum of fleshy love with spiritually refined devotion.
Roses of Sharon aren't red
Lilies of the Valley aren't blue
But your breasts are like towers
And a pair of goats too.
There has been an icy atmosphere around the Manse so far this morning. Marjory gave me some very hard looks during our morning prayer time. And now she has driven off to Milton Keynes. She left early, she said, because she wanted to spend plenty of tine getting "a proper present for myself." I suppose it can take a long while, to browse round the Christian bookshop.
Song of Songs came up at our fellowship meeting tonight, for some reason. I recounted your little verse. Much mirth.
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