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Hev you got a Valentine's, gal?

PUBLISHED: 10:09 11 February 2018 | UPDATED: 15:02 12 February 2018

A Singing Postman tune - what could be more romantic this Valentine's?

A Singing Postman tune - what could be more romantic this Valentine's?

Archant

What better way to woo your Norfolk sweetheart than with a Singing Postman ditty, says Keith Skipper.

I won’t be sending cards to mark St Valentine’s Day. And if my role in the history of Norfolk romance stays true to form, I won’t be receiving any next Wednesday either.

This may come as a nasty surprise to many who counted me among soft touches for a soppy line or two wrapped up in everlasting roses, eternal truths and enough little crosses to win a general election.

As a lad with crushes, in no order of magnitude, on Kim Novak, Ava Gardner, Grace Kelly, Jane Russell, Alma Cogan, Sabrina and a few hundred others, I accepted it would be a waste of time dropping a line pledging deepest affection and a share in my next bag of peardrops.

That fatalism stretched to my village school when I failed to see the point in spending hard-earned pennies on a card and compliments in proper joined-up writing for someone with no idea from whom they came. Same with placing a present on the doorstep, knocking loudly – and disappearing into the night.

There’s enough mystery in this world without adding hide-and-seek relationships to the list. If there’s anything meaningful to share, it should be face to face on a windswept beach in rolling surf under a starlit sky. Or over a half of mild and porky scratchings down The Eradicated Coypu.

It would be splendid to see and hear a Premier League footballer on about £350,000 a week tell the other love of his life: ”Money is no match for the riches your smile brings to me.” Or one over-worked teacher exclaiming to another: “Life without you is like a broken pencil... pointless.”

Norfolk sons of the soil could quote from the Farmer Sutra or cosy up with the most successful invitation in chat-up history: “Dew yew want ter come up an’ see my Singin’ Pustman records?”

The age of mardling magic is not dead.



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