If the single most important thing in life is to be loved and cherished, then I am singularly blessed, at 74, to receive daily assurances that I am both loved and cherished. My beloved companion of the last sixty years informs me by word and deed each and every day just how much I mean to him. I can only hope that my less forthcoming avowals are clear by my own actions toward him that his love of me is well and truly reciprocated.

His daily testimonials to our shared love are so very evident. In sighting me a smile invariably takes the place of a frown. His smile across a room is more than enough to lighten my mood, it is as though I have been tenderly caressed. His remarks about my physical appearance are invariably wickedly ticklish.

He appreciates my cooking and baking skills, my home-making abilities, my conversation. It is my constant presence in his life that he appreciates most of all, for he loves me.

If anyone could attest to being more sublimely gifted than I am by providence, perhaps even destiny, that would be miraculous. Not boasting. Marvelling. Hugging myself with the pleasure of good fortune.

Privileged beyond words.