Love is a bed of roses

A man sent me flowers, covered in ribbons and delivered right to my doorstep – and won my heart.

Forget that it was my birthday and they came from a son far away in the fairest Cape, it still counts. It’s flowers and it’s from a man, my best friend tells me.

It’s been years since I’ve ooh-ed and aah-ed over a bunch of tulips, roses and tiger lilies, fluffed out with some fynbos and tiny purple sprays. Too long…

And I wonder about this oldschool chivalry that makes a woman weak at the knees. Is it a forgotten art, like opening the door for your girl?

No, leaning across the passenger seat from inside to flick a handle and let me catch the door doesn’t count.

Jumping out of your car, running around to open it, does – and puts a spring in my step too. My mom would’ve said it’s plain ol’ good manners. But it’s so much more.

It’s not answering your phone when I’m with you; it’s drawing wall-flower me into the conversation you’re having with your fellow petrolheads, doesn’t matter if I know sweet blue-all about gaskets or transmissions; it’s asking about my day and really, really listening; it’s bundling me in the car for a surprise weekend away – and it’s whipping out a hanky, a real hanky, when life becomes a bit much.

Because that tells me I am special.

Yes, I could’ve been showered with much-needed money, shoes, even undies, on my birthday (which those around me seem to celebrate much more than I’m-soover-it me), but how I cherish that early-morning breakfast in bed, the over-the-top singing – and those flowers… A week later they are still blooming next to me.

The roses have opened, as have the tulips. A week later I still feel special. So brush up on the “manners”.

Chocolates a cliché? Don’t you believe it. We’re pushovers for it. As we are for flowers, even that wilting bunch you grabbed at the garage and decidedly overpaid for.

It’s the effort that’s not lost on us. You showed you cared and even my mom would’ve approved.

“Such a gentleman…”

So be that tall, dark, handsome knight on his shiny horse. We’ll thank you later…