He is affected by a strange kind of disorder which I can only sum up as enthusiastic shopitis. I am more often indifferent to shopping, he is dedicated to a certain type of shopping. He looks for sales, bargains, good deals, be it from automotive parts sources or from grocery supermarkets. We both daily look forward to the delivery of the newspapers that we subscribe to. Me, so I can scan the news, and he so that he can consume the advertising flyers. Those colourful shopping enticements that regularly get tucked inside the newspapers.

He retrieves them from their waiting status on our porch, tucked into the double receiving hook he's placed there for that distinct purpose, and carefully separates the wheat from the chaff. The wheat, in my opinion, is the newspapers, the chaff, in his opinion, represent delectable printed candy. He anticipates their arrival just as a child would, entering a candy shop, uncertain in which direction to head first, then deciding to tidily and carefully peruse the offerings, aisle by delicious aisle.

I never look at the advertising flyers, they represent nothing to me but an unwanted accumulation of wasted paper ready to be deposited in the recycling bin. Their presence excites his interest in making a trip to the various places linked to the advertising that happens at any given moment to alert him to the potential of achieving a sales scoop. There's little harm in it, other than the waste involved. And waste makes me wince.

This week he went out and bought no fewer than four 'eternity' scarfs for me and our granddaughter; they were on sale, two for $5. Yesterday he brought home, though he had brought to my attention the advertisement relating to them and I'd shrugged them off, informing him we had more than ample oranges, a dozen of the largest Florida-grown navel oranges I'd ever seen. We both love navel oranges and eat them regularly. Lately I've only been able to buy South African-grown oranges and they simply cannot match the quality and taste of their American counterparts. Last shopping, because they were on sale, I'd bought enough to last us for weeks. I've half left, and now must find room in our crowded refrigerator to accommodate the giant oranges. We will, needless to say, use them in due time.

He also scooped up a piece of cheese weighing a kilogram, because he liked the price ($15) and it was spiced-and-caraway-seed-littered and that intrigued him. It has an interesting taste. The kind of taste you appreciate in very small quantities, so that if you misguidedly purchase such a product, it would be far preferable had you done so in a modest size to sum up your impression without much loss. Now we've got this huge piece of cheese in the refrigerator, aromatic to be sure, but with a type of texture born of the additives that feels unpleasant to the palate.

He could have other vices. Other than informing me casually multiple times weekly that he's just popping out to the bank or somewhere similar, then coming back hauling a cache of foodstuffs he bought at high-priced supermarkets I never shop at, or at bulk food shops, bringing home items that we may or may not use, and eventually discard. But when he returns with his bounty he is invariably so pleased with his venture, it's difficult not to rejoice with him; it represents, after all, the staff of life, as it were.

He is impulsive and driven to excess at times. Like his penchant for breaking into a wide smile whenever our eyes meet throughout the course of a day, any day, any time of day. His cheerfulness and capacity to brighten my day never fails to impress me. Or nuzzling me when I'm busy working in the kitchen. Or asking for a hug, and holding me tight and close. Or kissing me, to remind me how much we mean to one another. After 58 years of marriage you'd think I'd be accustomed to it. I am, and cannot but wonder at my good fortune.