The age of romance is possibly past its best

Picture the scene:  Yours Truly crawled through the kitchen door this evening, fresh (not!) from 90 minutes of intensive hockey training. HunterGatherer must have taken pity on me, for he surveyed my beetroot face and wandered over and gave me a kindly hug. "Sorry, I'm probably smelling pretty sweaty. I've been running about all night," I said apologetically, whilst treasuring this rare moment of semi-intimacy. Luckily, there was no child in the vicinity at this point - if they are, they generally immediately start making vomiting noises at the first hint of any parental affection (how they think they actually made it into this world remains a mystery). Evidently unperturbed by the threat of sweat, HunterGatherer hugged me even closer in his cosy fleece top and whispered in my ear, "Oh, don't worry, I've been castrating calves all day." "Wow, the art of romance really is dead, isn't it?" I joked, extracting myself just ever-so-slightly from his hug. "Well, it certainly is for those calves anyway!" he retorted.