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This weekend’s project has been to wallpaper the hall, stairs and landing with lining paper ready for painting. The walls were in a pretty poor state, but we don’t have the time or inclination to replaster.  So lining paper it is.

We chose the 1700 grade paper, which is frankly akin to lining the walls with cardboard.  We packed Button off to her grandparents for a day of playing in the park, eating chocolate, and generally being spoiled rotten.  Thanks to the grandparents for their help!

And up the ladders we went.  Well, up I went.  We have a system for decorating Chez Stitches.  Mr S cuts the paper and pastes it.  He makes the tea and bacon sandwiches.  He hunts and gathers for biscuits.

I hang the paper and then caulk the edges when dry.

So whilst he pasted and I hung, I contemplated a Valentines weekend spent papering walls. I remembered our first Valentines Day when the flowers/champagne/chocolates/bear went astray. When I had no idea that our lives would end up so entwined. And I was happy up my ladder. Happy that I have a home and my family is safe within its walls.  Happy that we could work so well together to make our home warm and welcoming. Happy that my chap is willing to spend his Saturday slapping glue on paper without so much as a whimper about football. Happy that we had some very nice steak in the freezer and wine in the cupboard for a romantic dinner tonight once all the work was done.

We finished the papering in a day (just…Button had a slightly late night) and slept like logs.

This morning I awoke to bacon sandwiches in bed with Mr S and Button (she’d stood at the top of the stairs hollering “Daddy! Bacon!” just in case he wasn’t already on the case).  I also had a small box of silky lingerie that completley contravened the agreement not to ‘do’ Valentine’s Day.

This is the lingerie...obviously I'm not modelling!

Mr S then popped off to take Button to Ma Stitches whilst I caulked and we cleared up the mess we’d made yesterday. I’d just remounted my ladder when a knock came to the door and a frown to my face.  Our little estate is plagued by hopeful and hopeless (usually both) door to door salespeople and I thought Sunday sales calls a little beyond the pale.

I opened the door to a cheerful man with a bouquet of exquiste red roses. Willing to take in the delivery for a neighbour I was astonished to find the delivery was for me.

From Mr S.

Of course.

And suddenly it struck me that not only does he love me, every day and in a million little ways, but he’s still in love with me.

I’m right to be happy.