As we waited for them to arrive, my wife stood in the sitting room, head tilted slightly to one side, arms folded, watching me as I tidied things she had probably just tidied two minutes previously, as I rearranged things she had no doubt just rearranged herself.
When the doorbell rang, we both headed to the hallway to greet our friends. She was ahead of me, so, as she got the door, I paused and hastily rearranged the flowers in the vase sitting on the hall table.
As she opened the door, she looked back at me over her shoulder, rolled her eyes, and said: "for your birthday I'm going to get you a Y chromosome".
All of which reminded me of this posting on one of the blogs I follow from my tumblr.
My wife is not the poetry fan that I am, but she did manage a wry smile when I showed her Alastair Reid's poem: Scotland, a poem with larks as fine as Vaughan Williams' (and mercifully more concise than those of the poem by George Meredith that was his inspriation).
My wife and I however liked the poem best not for its larks, but for its wonderful commentary on the Calvinistic disposition (thankfully now less) typical of Scots.
Scotland is from Weathering: Poems and Translations (Canongate, 1978).
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Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.