That Unforgettable March

THAT PECULIAR MARCH
March is never merely a month; its an annual assessment of your capacity to keep your wits about you.
Especially when your love is as eccentric as the weather outside: neither spring nor apocalypse, or perhaps simply someone tipped over a can of cloudy paint all over the city and called it a day.
The romance between Oliver and Mildred sprouted in March, and that alone explained everything.
While other couples met beneath showers of cherry blossoms, these two first collided when Oliver accidentally splattered Mildred with mud from a puddle.
Rather than tears, Mildred launched a well-aimed, half-melted snowball (which Oliver swore housed a brick) straight at his windscreen.
It was love at first ricochet.
March in their town was when romance stomped down the streets in wellies.
Shall we go for a stroll? Oliver murmured sweetly into the phone.
I dont own a canoe, Mildred replied, entirely sensibly.
Ill carry you piggyback, he insisted.
Their dates resembled SAS training exercises through English fens.
Oliver heroically waded across lakes of soggy porridge, Mildred holding an umbrella above them which, with spectacular determination, tried to blow them both towards Brighton along with all hope of dry socks.
You know, Oliver mused, squelching his right boot, thats depth of feeling, this, isnt it?
Were like those two mallards in the park.
Mallards buggered off to Spain months ago, Mildred countered.
Were more like two clumsy penguins missed the Antarctic entirely.
Their peculiar affection surfaced in the tiniest details.
True depth of feeling in March wasnt about a ring in a glass of champagne (youd find an ice cube swimming next to it anyway) but splitting the last packet of Lemsip between them.
This is for you, Oliver declared grandly, handing her half the powder, straight from the heart.
Whys it covered in cat fur?
Thats seasoning.
For immunity.
Mildred regarded him ridiculous bobble hat, crimson nose, wild gleam in his eye and understood: this was it.
That secret handshake of the universe, which botched up and meshed together two souls who could still laugh, fevers and all (for men, as everyone knows, this is tantamount to a near-death experience).
…The most romantic moment blossomed at the close of the month.
Sunshine finally clawed its way out, revealing all the things winter had been hiding under a blanket of snow.
The city looked like the set of a film about the uprising of binmen.
They stood atop a bridge.
The wind tried to liberate Olivers jacket at thirty metres a second, sending it off to Southampton.
Mildred! he started, shouting over springs cacophony.
I wanted to say…
Youre like…
Like the first snowdrop!
As pale and determined to poke through rubbish? Mildred asked, adjusting a scarf that had made three complete circuits of her head.
Oliver floundered.
No youre resilient.
Despite this blessed March, youre still here with me.
Even after I dropped your phone in a snowdrift that turned out to be a puddle.
Mildred fixed her gaze on him, sneezed (in perfect synchronization with a passing double-decker bus), and laughed.
All right, snowdrop hero.
Lets go home.
Ive bought a kilo of lemons and Ive got a mulled wine recipe.
If we survive Sunday, Ill officially register our love as a historic landmark.
They tramped the pavement, dodging icebergs on the path.
It was a very deep love exactly knee-deep, which matched the volume of water in their staircase.
But they didnt mind.
Because in that peculiar March it didnt matter how clean your boots were, but whose hand you grasped as you both slipped inevitably towards April…
…Another year passed.
A new that peculiar March dawned.
The town had become the backdrop for a low-budget remake of Waterworld.
Oliver and Mildred stood before an enormous puddle that had conquered their courtyard overnight.
Neighbours cowered by fences, tiptoeing along the edge of the ice.
One elderly gent stared upwards, awaiting either rescue by helicopter or perhaps a dove with an olive branch.
Oliver, Mildred eyed her new white trainers bought in a burst of wild optimism.
Were grown-ups now.
Weve got a mortgage, jobs, and an annual report.
We cant simply…
Oh, but we can, interrupted Oliver.
From behind his back, like a magician, he conjured two bright yellow wellies adorned with cheerful ducklings.
Got them yesterday.
In your size.
Mildred sighed.
This was that profound love: when your partner knows both your shoe size and your willingness to embrace total absurdity.
Five minutes later, they stood slap-bang in the centre of the puddle.
Water gurgled merrily, sunlight bounced off dirty ice, and passersby eyed them as though theyd escaped from some benevolent but tightly locked institution.
You know, said Mildred, leaping and spraying the neighbours fur hat generously with puddle drops, this is the best launch for spring.
Its code Yellow Duck, Oliver replied solemnly.
The universe tried to drown us in gloom, but weve got waterproof heels.
They stood in the middle of this springtime chaos absurd, drenched, but entirely in sync.
It was a strange love, understood only by those who found the bottom where others saw nothing but muck.
Oliver hugged her, and suddenly the sun baked so fiercely that fine mist began to rise from their jackets.
Were steaming, observed Mildred.
No, grinned Oliver, Weve finally warmed to the right temperature.
In this March, they understood the essential truth: when life hands you puddles, buy the brightest wellies you can find and learn to dance in them.