SINCE I got married four years ago, I’ve had several long, satisfying and earth-shattering... monologues.

It’s the best thing about having a husband and a son: A captive audience of two adorable males. In fact, if you don’t fancy having someone to talk to for the rest of your life, why bother getting hitched?

But, while I can talk the Supportive Spouse’s ear off – ranting for hours about lousy bookstore service, and spinning verbal gold from my day at the supermarket – I am finding that what passes unspoken between us has become increasingly precious.

An example: I wake up one morning to find him fixing our son’s milk in the kitchen before he goes to work. With a start, I notice the darker-than-usual black circles under his eyes. Before I can say anything, though, he looks up at me and demands:

“Why are your eye circles so bad?”

See? Telepathy and sympathy.

Perhaps there was just a tiny element of wicked gloating.

(Okay, make it a lot.)

Three weeks ago, on Valentine’s Day, he handed me a gift-wrapped package. It was a paperback biography of author Saul Bellow.

I had written in my blog many months ago about how ants had infested the spine of my hardcover copy of the book, forcing me to destroy it via shower- jet in the bathroom while screaming blue murder.

“I thought you’d want another copy,” he explained simply.

Later, back home, I placed it quietly in the exact same spot which the old copy had occupied on the now-pest-free shelf.

Our relationship has evolved to the non-oral plane out of necessity.

As our son, Julian, turns three this week, it is apparent he has – for better or worse – inherited my chatterbox capabilities.

Constantly interrupting adult conversation, Julian is also a small wise guy.

One Sunday, after the boy threw a noisy tantrum, his dad put him in the naughty corner.

Then he pointedly ignored the disgraced lad, burying his nose in the Sunday broadsheets.

After 10 minutes had passed, the Supportive Spouse decided it was time for a lecture on crime and punishment.

“When you’re naughty, you will be punished,” he boomed sternly. “Do you know what punishment is?”

“Yes, punishment is when Papa lies on the bed and reads newspapers,” came Julian’s immediate, earnest reply.

But the best thing about my talkative tot is that he tells me he loves me all the time.

“Me too,” he’d pipe sweetly, whenever I declared my affections.

If the Supportive Spouse is within earshot, a supersonic sentiment – double-powered, shimmering across radio frequencies – is sent his way too.

Happy Belated Valentine’s.

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