It's a Dad's Life/Adam Brophy:I'm not good on romance. You probably look at the byline picture accompanying this column and think, "Wow, red hot". You would be wrong.
It would be easy to use the advent of children as an excuse for my shortcomings in this area, that only since the little people's demands have overwhelmed all others have I slipped from attending to the needs and desires of the one who wakes beside me every morning. That too would be wrong; I've always been rubbish. It is true that I have become worse since the kids' arrival, but I was no rose-petal-spreading lothario to begin with.
At 16, I bought my then-girlfriend a large box of Ferrero Rocher for her birthday. Unfortunately, I was well-organised and made the purchase in advance. By the time the day rolled around, those sumptuous balls of chocolate heaven were resting in my belly and I was summarily dumped.
Undeterred, I went and got myself another girlfriend. As her birthday approached, I determined not to eat her present. Instead, I bought her a silver chain with a round medallion, then changed the medallion to a heart-shaped one, just to ensure she got the point. She dumped me three days later, probably terrified I was about to propose. We had, after all, only been "going together" for two weeks.
After that, there was another girl. She told me she loved me and I told her the same. She went away to the United States and came home with a carton of cigarettes and the (by now familiar) kick to touch. It took me a long time to trust women, never mind the US, again.
The current incumbent as "Dad's Life Wife" wasn't too far down the track. We first held hands as teens and haven't let go since, if, at times, only to get in close to trade body blows. She saw me as a flawed diamond in a dusty coal scuttle and I thought she smelled nice. She still smells nice.
Every year, when love-heart balloon week comes round, we fight. I either won't acknowledge it at all, or will come up with some spontaneous, disproportionate gesture that leaves me feeling hard done-by. But generally, being a skinflint, I choose to ignore all the red rose-waving and so am seen as the Scrooge of St Valentine's Day. The way it works is, she gives me a card in which is written a sincere and honest message. I look at it cursorily and, to draw attention away from my empty hands, turn on the telly. There hangs a heavy silence, followed by a kick to my ankle as she wonders aloud when I'm going to grow up.
Last week, only two cards entered our house, both from the kids. This year, the Missus trumped me and did as I do. This year, I feel like I gorged on chocolate again. Am I not loved? Have I become totally unloveable? The elder child loves me. Because I bring her swimming, she tells me she loves me so much she is going to get rid of Mummy so she can marry me. The whole Electra complex thing is a bit worrying, but still it's nice to know someone cares. The younger child sides with her mother and shoots me daggers.
As usual when there are signs that my relationship is rocky, I do the mature thing and open the lines of communication. My mother is always full of good advice at times like this and I think my wife appreciates the fact that we still share such a strong bond. I have tried to remove the middle-man and have them discuss our problems with each other, but for some reason neither is keen.
As far as I can see romance should be left to the Italians. Now, with one of them at the helm of our national team, we may be free to play beautiful football and also re-learn how to woo our wives. A lot rests on Trapattoni's shoulders.
