THAT MARCH
March isnt just a monthits an annual stress test for your sanity.
Especially when your love life matches the erratic English weather outside: somewhere between spring, the apocalypse, or just someone spilling a bucket of grey paint over the city.
…The love between Oliver and Grace sparked in March, which explained absolutely everything.
Other couples met under blossoming cherry trees, but these two crossed paths when Oliver accidentally splashed Grace with a puddle, and she, instead of crying, lobbed a melting snowball squarely onto his windscreen.
It felt, to Oliver, like it was hiding a brick inside.
It was love at first ricochet.
March in their town was when romance stepped out wearing wellies.
Fancy a wander? Oliver whispered gently down the line.
I dont own a boat, Grace replied with perfect logic.
Ill carry you piggyback.
Their dates felt more like SAS training exercises in muddy terrain.
Oliver heroically transported Grace over lakes of slush, while she kept an umbrella above them, desperately trying not to let it fly off in the direction of Brighton, along with any hope theyd have dry feet.
Yknow, Oliver mused, squelching along in his right boot, thats the depth of real feeling.
Right now, were like those two ducks in the park.
Ducks migrated south ages ago, Oliver.
Were more like two confused penguins who missed the boat to the Antarctic.
Their peculiar affection revealed itself in the little things.
Deep feelings in March arent a ring in a champagne glass (the glass would just have an ice cube floating in it anyway), but the last cold and flu tablet split in half.
This is for you, Oliver declared, offering her half a lemon powder.
Tearing it from my very heart.
Why is it covered in cat fur?
Its a seasoning.
Boosts immunity.
Grace gazed at himdaft bobble hat, red nose, manic sparkle in his eyesand knew: this was it.
The code of the universe that glitched and paired up two people able to laugh when both were running a fever (which, as every man knows, is practically a near-death experience).
The most romantic moment came at the end of the month.
The sun finally peeked out, revealing everything that winter had carefully hidden beneath snow.
The town resembled a film set for Uprising of the Council Workers.
They stood on the bridge.
The wind blasted at thirty miles an hour, trying to tear Olivers jacket off.
Grace, Oliver began, fighting to shout over the roar of spring, I wanted to say Youre like like the first snowdrop!
So pale and poking up through rubbish? Grace clarified, adjusting a scarf that had wrapped round her head three times already.
Oliver hesitated.
No.
Resilient.
Despite this blasted March, youre still by my sideeven after I dropped your phone in a snowdrift that turned out to be a puddle.
Grace looked at him, sneezed in perfect sync with a passing tram, and burst out laughing.
All right, Mr Snowdrop Hero.
Lets go home.
I bought a kilo of lemons and found a mulled cider recipe.
If we survive this weekend, Ill officially declare our love a heritage site.
They marched down the street, dodging icebergs on the pavement.
It was a truly deep love.
Deep precisely up to the kneethe exact depth of water in their entryway.
But none of it mattered.
Because in that very March, the important thing wasnt how clean your boots were, but whose hand you gripped as you skidded toward inevitable April
A year passed.
Another that very March arrived.
The city once again transformed into the set for “Waterworld,” all filmed on about three quids budget.
Oliver and Grace stood before a massive puddle that swallowed the whole courtyard overnight.
Neighbours huddled along fences, tiptoeing on the ice, while an elderly gent squinted up at the sky, hoping for rescueif not by helicopter, then by a pigeon with an olive branch.
Oliver, Grace eyed her new white trainers bought in a fit of wild optimism, Were adults.
We have a mortgage, jobs, and a year-end report.
We cant simply
We can, Oliver cut her off.
From behind his back, he produced two bright yellow wellies featuring cheerful duck prints.
Bought them yesterday.
Your size.
Grace sighed.
It was that sort of deep lovethe kind where your partner knows not only your shoe size, but exactly how ready you are for disgrace.
Five minutes later, they perched in the middle of the puddle.
Water cheerfully splashed around them, the sun reflected off grubby ice chunks, and the passers-by stared as if theyd escaped from a very friendly but tightly locked institution.
You know, Grace jumped, sending a fountain of muddy water onto their neighbours mink hat.
This is the best spring launch ever.
Its the Yellow Duck Code, Oliver replied in mock seriousness.
The universe tried to drown us in gloom, but we outwitted it with waterproof heels.
Amid this chaotic springridiculous, soaked but perfectly in syncthey lingered.
It was a peculiar love, comprehensible only to those who can find the bottom where others see only filth.
Oliver hugged her, and just then the sun blazed so fiercely steam rose off their coats.
We are on fire, Grace observed.
Not quite, Oliver grinned.
Weve just finally warmed up to the right temperature.
In that very March, they realised this: when life presents puddles, buy the brightest wellies and learn to dance in them.
