I'm sitting here in my well-worn and unglamorous pyjamas, laptop on my knee, working on my latest book. The sun is streaming in through the French windows, and spring has indeed sprung.
DH comes in with a coffee for me, and says..."You look so beautiful sitting there in the sun. I'm so proud of you, and the luckiest man alive."
Readers, I'm going on 75, and he is 76. I have glasses, wrinkles and gardening hands, carrying a little more avoirdupois than recommended. Beautiful I am not. Is he lovely, or what?