Young couple’s home is where their hearts met

Sometimes it’s just the little things, That you say and do, Always thinking of others, Seeing their point of view. Having a sense of humour, A patient listening ear, Will hold you in high esteem, A true friend indeed, it’s clear.

The conversation over lunch turned to the concept of home. One of our young friends said the place he thought of as home wasn’t the same place he grew up.

His wife explained that his growing up had been a fairly rough experience.

She, on the other hand, had enjoyed a happier childhood.

“So, home for you is where you grew up?” the lady of the house asked.

“Well, yes,” she replied. “But...no, not really. When I think of home, I think of...well... the same place as him, actually. Isn’t that strange?”

Us older-marrieds looked at each other – and smiled.

The place they both thought of as home was where they met, fell in love, and set up their first house together.

Sometimes, home isn’t a place at all. Sometimes, it’s a person.

A presenter on Radio 4 said something like: “He was a flawed man, thankfully, but I would nonetheless like to present him as a sort of hero.”

Which, of course, started me thinking about different sorts of heroes.

A short time later, I was at a gathering where, coincidentally, several people were caring for loved ones through the last stages of their lives.

Each of their stories broke my heart.

The next day,

I saw a normally lovely boy have a flick-of-the-switch moment.

As he screamed and kicked and yelled, his grandad swept him up and carried him to a safe place, all the while saying: “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

There are many sorts of hero. We are often surrounded by the them.

They never think of themselves that way...do you?

Alison wanted to show me a memento of her dear, late grandad. I was curious to see what it would be. I didn’t expect it to be a paper plate!

She explained that when she was five her teacher had told him about some of her naughty behaviour. He took it seriously and sent her to her room.

Of course, he knew she had her toys and art stuff in there.

She took a paper plate and, in purple pen, wrote around the edge of it: “Hay Grandadd. I am sorree for my beehayvyur. I hop yu stil luve me. I luv you.” Then she added a broken heart for extra emotional blackmail.

“He looked at me, straightfaced,” Alison told me. “He said, ‘I always love you’, then he sent me back to my room.

“But he kept the plate – for 20 years!”

“All gowned up and first in line for the theatre,” Anne said to the man by her side.

“It all sounds so very elegant, doesn’t it?”

He replied: “Do you like the theatre?”

Well, she started telling him the shows she had seen and the ones she wished she could see.

And, of course, she liked musical theatre most of all.

“Give me a minute,” he said.

Her kind companion finished his preparations, walked over to a phone and speaker on a trolley by the theatre wall, and shuffled through some tracks.

As the anaesthetic took hold, Anne drifted into sleep to the music of Tim Rice and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Her afternoon at the theatre was off to an excellent start.

It’s the little things that make all the difference, don’t you think?