That Unforgettable March

THAT PARTICULAR MARCH
March in England isnt merely a month; its an annual endurance test for one’s sanity.
Especially when your love life is as unpredictable as the weather outsidesometimes its spring, sometimes its an apocalypse, or sometimes its as if someone poured a bucket of grey paint over the whole town.
The romance between Oliver and Harriet began in March, which explained everything.
While other couples met under cherry blossom swirls, these two crossed paths when Oliver accidentally splashed Harriet from a muddy puddle.
Instead of tearing up, she retaliated by hurling a half-melted snowball at his windscreena strike that, by Olivers reckoning, must have contained a brick.
It was love at first ricochet.
March in our town is the time when romance ventures outside in wellies.
Fancy a stroll? Oliver would whisper tenderly into the phone.
I dont own a boat, Harriet replied, sensibly.
Ill carry you, Oliver promised.
Their dates resembled SAS training through swampy terrain.
Oliver gallantly carried Harriet across lakes of slushy porridge, while she held a stubborn umbrella overhead that threatened to take flight straight to Liverpool along with any hope of keeping their feet dry.
You know, Oliver mused, his right boot making squelchy sounds, this is the depth of true feeling.
Were like the two ducks in the park right now.
Ducks migrated months ago, Oliver.
Were like two hapless penguins who missed Antarctica entirely, Harriet retorted.
Their peculiar love showed itself in the details.
Deep affection in March isnt a ring dropped in champagne (which would be bobbing alongside an ice cube anyway), but the last sachet of Lemsip, split between them.
This is for you, Oliver declared, offering her half of the yellow powder.
Torn from the heart.
Whys it covered in cat hair? Harriet asked.
Thats garnish.
Builds up immunity, he grinned.
Harriet looked at himdonning a ridiculous bobble hat, a red nose, and a mad gleam in his eyeand realised: this was it.
The cosmic miscode that brought together two people able to laugh, even when both had a fever (which, for a man, as everyone knows, borders on near-death).
The most romantic moment arrived at months end.
The sun finally broke through, revealing everything winter had hidden under the snow.
The town looked like the set of a film about council workers rising against adversity.
They stood atop the bridge.
An icy wind battered Oliver, trying to strip him of his coat.
Harriet, he began, trying to shout over springs roar, I wanted to say Youre like Youre like the first snowdrop!
As pale as that, fighting your way through litter? Harriet quipped, adjusting her scarf, which had circled her head three times already.
Oliver faltered.
No.
As resilient.
Despite this cursed March, youre still with me.
Even after I dropped your phone in a snowbank that turned out to be a puddle.
Harriet looked at him, sneezed (in time with a passing tram) and laughed.
Alright, hero-snowdrop.
Lets head home.
Ive bought a kilo of lemons and found a recipe for mulled wine.
If we survive this Sunday, I will declare our love a listed monument.
They navigated the street, weaving around icebergs on the pavement.
It was a deep loveprecisely knee-deep, as many inches of water lay in their entryway.
But none of that mattered, because in that particular March, what counts isnt how clean your boots are, but whose hand you hold as you slip together towards inevitable April
Another year passed.
A fresh that particular March dawned.
The town once again resembled the set of Waterworld, filmed on a budget of three pennies.
Oliver and Harriet stood before a vast puddle that had taken over their courtyard overnight.
Neighbours clung dismally to garden fences, trying to tiptoe across the icy rim, while some pensioner gazed heavenward, hoping for a rescue helicopteror at minimum, a pigeon with an olive twig.
Oliver, Harriet eyed her brand new white trainers, purchased in an attack of unwarranted optimism.
Were grown-ups.
We have a mortgage, jobs, and an annual report.
We cant just
We can, interrupted Oliver.
Like a magician, he produced from behind his back two bright yellow wellies emblazoned with cheerful ducklings.
Bought them yesterday.
Your size.
Harriet sighed.
This was the depth of love: a partner who knows not only your shoe size, but your precise readiness to embrace foolishness.
Five minutes later, they were in the heart of the puddle.
The water cheerfully splashed, the sun reflected in dirty shards of ice, and passers-by stared as if theyd escaped from a rather pleasant, but very secure, institution.
You know, Harriet jumped, sending a spray onto their neighbour in his mink hat, this is the best spring launch.
Its the Yellow Duckling code, Oliver responded seriously.
The powers above tried to drown us in misery, but weve got waterproof heels.
They stood amidst that chaos of springridiculous, damp, but utterly together.
It was a strange love, understood only by those who can find a solid bottom where others see only muck.
Oliver hugged her, and at that moment the sun shone so intensely that steam rose from their jackets.
Were on fire, Harriet observed.
No, Oliver smiled.
Weve just finally reached the right temperature.
In that particular March, they understood the most important thing: when life gives you puddles, buy the brightest wellies and learn to dance in them.
And so I learned, once again, that happiness isnt about the weather or pristine shoesits about finding someone willing to wade through every March together.