I look at the LTLP in surprise. She is making annoyed gestures towards my laptop.

“But it’s Jethro Tull!” I protest.

“That,” she replies, narrowing her eyes like the scary poster of Tony Blair, “is my point.”

One of the great things that I have discovered about Spotify, which – in any event – is the best thing in the world, is that it contains loads of progressive rock. iTunes does not have much progressive rock, as it does not have enough memory, whereas with Spotify it is almost as if your computer has grown a beard. Therefore I have been catching up on all the immense works that I remember from vinyl.

The trouble is that couples work on Venn diagrams when it comes to musical appreciation. The overlapping bit in the middle on our particular Venn diagram does not contain many bands, and sometimes you can have too much Proclaimers or the free ‘Chill Out’ CD that was once taped to the front of the Observer newspaper.

I am a bit cross with her closed mind attitude.

“I think you should give it more of a chance,” I say. “I know progressive rock does have a bit of a bad reputation, but the interesting thing is that the best, most well-regarded stuff – your Genesises, your Tulls, even something like Tubular Bells – essentially consists of a series of cracking tunes linked by short musical bridges. So whilst it’s those bridges that define the genre, if you like, it really just goes back to those cracking tunes, which are the essence of pop music anyway.”

“Aside from Yes,” I admit, “who sound like an explosion in a wank factory.”

I warm to my theme. “So whilst many people have likened Progressive Rock to classical music, I’d say that it’s more to do with the traditions of opera – big numbers with a theme and links.”

I am pleased with my analysis. Sometimes I think that I should have been a teacher; perhaps I might re-train one day. There is nothing quite as satisfying as imparting learning to people.

“I think it’s shit,” she replies.

I am annoyed once more. The problem with being a teacher in the twenty-first century is that trendy teaching theories have made it all but impossible to exclude pupils.

“Can you turn it off now, please?”

I sigh, and close the website down. There is uncomfortable silence. Walking across the sitting room, I turn the television on.

There is some silence between us.

She has bought me a driftwood frame, with space for three photographs. The first depicts the two of us in Prague, sat at a metal table outside a bar, two large glasses of beer sparkling in the sun. It is like a publicity shot for the British Contentment Society.

The second is of me, lolling on the steps of the Pantheon in Rome, a short city break at one of the happiest times of our lives. I have the blissful look of a man who has eaten well, and used his hotel room to the full.

The third photograph is one which we took ourselves, holding the camera away from our faces and clicking in hope. We are stood on one of the local beaches at Brancaster, which is like a cross between New Zealand’s spectacular Ninety Mile Beach, and Antarctica. No professional could have taken a better shot.

It is not my fault that my romantic gift of a subscription to New Scientist magazine, complete with credit-crunch busting 30% discount has failed to arrive in the post this morning.

I cast my mind back to the previous evening in the Village Pub.

I had been quite open with the LTLP that I had not been able to get her a card, as I had got sidetracked with the need to get a new laundry basket. Unfortunately, Short Tony had mentioned in front of her that he had got Mrs Short Tony a card, and Big A had talked about his card, plus flowers. This was not helpful.

I do not quite know how Valentine’s day crept up on me this year. It is ridiculous. Part of the thing is because it is so confusing – if it were held on the same day each year then everything would be more straightforward. Plus it is just a commercial thing, plus I do not need a ’special day’ to remind the LTLP why she loves me so much.

“At least I got us a table,” I comment.

The lady plonks two fry ups down in front of us.

“This is not,” says the LTLP, “quite what I had in mind.”

“Here we go – deliver as many as you can,” offers the Village Shop Man.

I have a job!!! It is voluntary work for the Village Shop. I have always thought that I would do some service in the community, even on top of the good works I do at the Snooker Club. My mother helps the RNLI, and even John Twonil drives the Community Bus, although I am not going to write about that any more as he got cross because I have never mentioned the at least five or six times when he has been out in it and it has not been stolen and the police called.

I walk round the Village, delivering leaflets.

I had forgotten quite how nice it is to go for a walk. Delivering leaflets is a refreshingly mindless pastime; the satisfaction of doing a good deed for the Village Shop people is matched only by the satisfaction of the ‘clunk’ of a letterbox as another leaflet goes down. Plus you get to nose around peoples’ gardens, especially if the letterbox is not immediately visible which gives you the excuse to go round the back. There are some cottages that I didn’t even know existed, and really terrible three-piece suites in some living rooms. I stroll around with a song in my heart, doing my good turn.

It starts to sleet.

Going for a walk in the sleet is invigorating. I push a soggy leaflet through another letterbox. The next cottage does not have a visible means of delivery, but there is a pheasant hanging up on the back gate, so I tuck it into that. Then up the track that leads across the field opposite the farm.

It is snowing very hard now.

It really is immensely enjoyable walking around in such conditions, having been sent out to deliver leaflets without being supplied with the appropriate footwear by my employer. But what can I do? I would not claim against the Village Shop, and let some dodgy ‘claims company’ take a cut of my compensation.

I leave the rest of the leaflets at Eddie’s, who has promised to help me out. The Village Shop man gives me two jars of pickle. Later on, I overhear two ladies in the Post Office discussing my leafleting activities. I am full of pride.

Boooooooooooo.

The Vegetable Delivery people have gone broke. I read the letter with sadness. Life in Brown’s Britain is hell. They are a victim of the economic downturn. Woolworth’s, MFI, The Vegetable Delivery Service. It is like all the icons of British retailing are collapsing around our ears.

Granted, their lettuces were occasionally less crunchy than credit itself, and there was the odd inappropriate substitution: parsnips for jerusalem artichokes; courgettes for radishes; a Vegetable Delivery Man (with a beard) for the fit Vegetable Delivery Lady. But they were a nice little business that deserved to do better.

They encouraged me to eat vegetables, by the simple fact that they appeared at my door every Thursday morning. Now I will have to buy them from a shop, and let’s face it, I will never bother to do that, as they are vegetables. Booooo, boooooo and triple booooooooo.

The Cider Delivery Service dropped round some free cider at Christmas to say thank you for my custom. I hope they are OK financially. To lose both vegetables and cider would cut the heart from the community.

I carry my final box indoors sadly, and wave goodbye to the Vegetable Delivery Lady. We have had some great times together, but I suppose all good things must come to an end.