As much as it pains me to admit it, I have committed a major blunder. In all the recent messing about with stew and breakfast cereal and expensive-but-boring tomes by dead, bald Midgardians, I forgot a very special day.
The day I may-or-may-not-have married Sigyn. The twenty-eighth day of the Midgardian month of March came and went and I… I did nothing. I almost, almost deserve a mighty blow athwart my thick skull with Thor’s Mjolnir.
Sigyn, being the dearest creature in this realm or any other, so far from being angry, sweetly forbore to mention it and even kept back her own lovingly-handmade card so that I would not be embarrassed or ashamed.
Oh, my love! How can I ever make it up to you? I haven’t your talent with handicrafts, and at the moment all my funds have been committed to my plans of conquest and I find myself quite out of pocket.
All I have left is my vaunted silver tongue, so I humbly offer this, in the spirit of that long-deceased William: