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Picture the scene. Paris， in the spring： Easter Sunday morning in the square by Notre Dame， my wife， Heidi， and I are strolling handin-hand under the blossom trees by the side of the cathedral.
It’s our first weekend away together since the children were born five years ago.
The sun is shining and it’s a beautiful day in the city of love.
Ahead， the Pont de l’Archevêché—a bridge linking the Ile de la Cité with the artistic Left Bank. And as we approach it， the most extraordinary， the most Parisian， sight either of us had ever seen.
The 1）railings of the bridge， from bank to bank across the Seine， are covered in 2）padlocks. All shapes and sizes， brass， steel， black and red. And each adorned with its own message—some scrawled with marker pen， others carefully engraved. There must have been thousands of them.
They are messages of love， written by lovers and locked onto the bridge. They glittered and sparkled in the sun—an oddly beautiful mosaic above the river.
Naturally， Heidi and I found a shop， bought a padlock of our own， wrote our names and the date on it， bagged a free spot on the bridge， and left our own symbol.
We threw the keys （all but one） into the Seine， took a photo of our lock， made a note of the location and chalked the whole thing up to the sort of experience you would only ever have in Paris.
That sort of thing—the grand romantic gesture， the transforming of the everyday into the extraordinary， the finding of poetry in something so 3）mundane as a padlock—it could only happen on the Continent. We British would never think of it. We’re simply too…well， British.
Fast-forward three months and I’m walking across the Millennium Bridge in London on a 4）dank and rainy Monday morning in July.
Commuters hurry over the Thames， heads down， collars up， struggling against the wind. Even tourists barely pause to snap St Paul’s or the Tate Modern. Tower Bridge is scarcely visible through the gloom. And then something catches my eye...
Swinging 5）gaily on one of the wire railings， there is a shiny brass padlock. And a few metres further on， there’s another. And another. And then a pair together. And then a cluster of five， another group of three. Each with messages， couples’ names， dates. One has a heart painted on it. Another simply reads“FOREVER”.
The love locks of Paris， have， it seems， come to London town.
Now， I am not an especially romantic person. I’ve had my moments—but more often than not， 6）pragmatism and traditional English reserve tend to temper most attempts at grand gestures. And I remember it clearly： spring 2004， I was drinking and playing pool with my best mate， Pat. She was in her flat on the other side of London， nursing the flu.
Suddenly I realised that rather than drinking Guinness and having fun with my friend， I would actually rather be sober and helping my girlfriend recover.
So did I throw down my 7）cue， run out of the pub， fly across town and turn up at her door， breathless and clutching a dozen red roses and a packet of 8）Lemsip？ No. I sent her a text： “I bloody love you I do.”
When I proposed （on Heidi’s 34th birthday， in May 2005）， I didn’t dare buy a ring myself in case I got a style she didn’t like—so I did it with a 9）replica that came free with my Lord Of The Rings Director’s Cut box set （“One ring to rule them all，” it says， in ancient， ahem， Elvish script）.
I also spent an hour trying to tie it on a scarlet ribbon around her cat’s neck—before getting scratched so badly I had to abandon the idea.
I’ve kept that Lord Of The Rings ring， however. It’s stayed in my wallet ever since.
Even Heidi’s 40th passed without too much romance. We were moving house at the time， plus our car had just been written off and the magazine I was working on had folded， so money was tight. I did manage to get tickets to see her favourite band， Pulp， play Hyde Park， mind…
So， as I said， I don’t really do grand gestures—but there are occasions when even the most reserved （or hopeless） of us stumble across something and find our hearts lifted by la vie romantique. And when we saw the love locks on the Pont de l’Archeveche， there was no way I was going to let the opportunity pass to immortalise our own feelings for each other.
As it turns out， the tradition is far older than one might think： it originated in Serbia during World War II， when couples from the town of Vrnjacka Banja symbolically sealed their love before the men went off to fight.
They were mostly confined to that single bridge in Serbia， however， until around a decade ago when they started springing up in Paris， Rome， Florence， Cologne， Prague， even Dublin. But never over here； never in Britain.
The story was always the same. One padlock would appear overnight， a 10）testimony to a lovers’ 11）tryst， a 12）memento of a romantic moment. Within days， it would be joined by others， and then more still…until， as on the Pont de l’Archeveche， they become almost a raison d’être for the bridge itself. So why has it taken so long for the love locks to come to London？ And why are they appearing now？ On that rainy Monday， I counted 13 love locks on the Millennium Bridge. By the end of the week， when I checked again， there were 27.
Perhaps it’s the tourists. Or perhaps it’s British couples copying what they’ve seen while on a trip to Paris. Or perhaps it’s just one of those spontaneous things that happen every now and then in all the great cities of the world.
Perhaps—as in Paris， or Rome or even in Vrnjacka Banja during World War II—each tiny padlock is inspiring another.
Perhaps， even if we have arrived a little late to the party， we Brits are a romantic nation after all.
When Heidi and I took a photo of our own Parisian padlock this spring， when we noted down the location， and later found the exact co-ordinates on Google Earth， when we kept that single key， it was all done with one rather wonderful idea in mind—to leave something for the future. Something to show that we， too， were in love.
We’re going to leave that photo， that key， those map co-ordinates， in our will： sealed in an envelope with the day we were there written on it. We’re leaving it for our children， with instructions to pass it on to their children， and so on.
I’ve got a lovely mental image of our greatgrandchild， on her honeymoon in Paris in the year 2090 or so， stopping halfway across the Seine with a GPS locator， looking for a little brass padlock with the names of her ancestors written on it， still faintly 13）legible after all those years.
And if that’s not romantic， I don’t know what is.
想想这样一幅景象。春天的巴黎：复活节周日的清晨，在巴黎圣母院旁的广场上，我的妻子海蒂和我正手拉手在教堂旁边的樱花树下漫步。
这是自孩子们五年前出生以来，我们第一次在外地过周末。
阳光灿烂，这正是爱之城中美丽的一天。
在前方，是大主教桥——一座连接着西岱岛与有着浓厚艺术气息的左岸的小桥。而当我们走近它时，一幅我俩都从未见过的最不同寻常、最巴黎风的景象跃入了我们的眼帘。
小桥的栏杆，横跨过塞纳河的两岸，上面布满了挂锁。形状各异，大小不一，铜制的，钢制的，黑色的，还有红色的。每一把都装点着独有的信息——有些是用记号笔潦草写画上去的，有些则是小心翼翼地刻上去的。桥栏上估计挂满了成千上万把这样的锁。
那些都是爱的信息，由恋人们书写并锁在小桥上，在阳光下闪闪发光——就像河面上一幅奇特而美丽的马赛克。
当然了，海蒂和我找到了一间小店，也买了一把属于我们自己的挂锁，在上面写上了我们的名字和日期，然后将其悬挂在小桥上的一处空位上，留下了我们自己的标记。
我们将钥匙（留下一条外所有的）扔进了塞纳河里，为我们的挂锁拍了张照片，记录下位置，整件事被我们认为是只能在巴黎体验到的经历。
那种事情——那种极度浪漫的举动，那种将日常生活化作非凡体验的转变，那种在诸如挂锁这样的世俗之物中发现诗意的事情——只可能在欧洲大陆上发生。我们英国人永远都不会想出来的。我们只不过是太……嗯，英国了。
时间快进三个月，我在七月一个潮湿下雨的周一清晨走过伦敦的千禧桥。
上班的人群匆匆穿过泰晤士河，低着头，竖着衣领，挣扎着逆风而行。即便是游客也很少停下来为圣保罗大教堂或泰特现代艺术馆拍照。昏暗中伦敦塔桥几不可见。然而就在那时，什么东西吸引了我的视线……
有一把亮闪闪的铜锁正在一根桥栏上快乐地晃动着。而再往前几米之外，还有一把。再有一把。接着有一对挂在一起。再接着有一串五把。另一群三把。每一把上都留有信息，情侣们的名字和日期。有一把上面画着一颗心。另一把上简单地写着“直到永远”。 巴黎的爱之锁，看起来，也来到了伦敦。
现在要说的是，我并不是个特别浪漫的人。我也有过浪漫的时刻——不过大多数情况下，实用主义和传统的英式内敛会平复掉想要做出惊天举措的企图心。
而我非常清楚地记得这么一个时刻：那是2004年的春天，我正边喝酒，边和我最好的伙伴帕特一起打台球。海蒂正在自己位于伦敦另一边的公寓里，因流感在家休养。
突然之间，我意识到与其喝着黑啤与朋友玩乐，实际上我更愿意头脑清醒地照顾女朋友康复。
那我是不是就这么扔下球杆，跑出酒吧，飞奔过城市，攥着一打红玫瑰和一包感冒药，上气不接下气地出现在她家门前呢？没有。我只是给她发了一条短信：“我爱死你了，真的。”
当我求婚时（2005年5月，在海蒂34岁生日的那天），我不敢自己去买戒指，以防买到的款式她不喜欢——于是我用了一个复制品，那是与我的盒装《指环王导演剪辑版》一起送来的免费随赠品（上面刻着“一枚戒指统领众戒”，用古老的，嗯，精灵语字体）。
我还花了一个小时试图用一根鲜红色的缎带将其系在她家猫咪的脖子上——差点被严重抓伤，最终不得不放弃那念头。
不过，我一直保存着那枚“指环王”戒指。从那以后，它一直躺在我的钱包里。
甚至连海蒂度过40岁生日时都没有多少浪漫举措。我们那时正在搬家，此外我们的汽车也要报废了，而我工作的那家杂志也停刊歇业了，所以我们手头很紧。不过我还是设法弄到了门票去看她最爱的乐队——果浆乐队在海德公园的演出，想起来了……
所以，就像我说的，我并不会真的做出惊天举措——但有些时候，即便是我们之中最保守的（或者说是不可救药的）人也会碰上某些事物，然后发现我们的心被“浪漫人生”所触动。所以当我们见到大主教桥上的那些爱之锁时，如此寄情恒久的机会，我又怎么会让其白白溜走呢。
原来，这个传统要比我们想象的更为古老：其起源于二战时期的塞尔维亚，在弗尔尼亚奇卡矿泉镇的男子们出征战斗之前，情侣们会象征性地封缄他们的爱情。
起初大多数只局限于塞尔维亚的那条唯一的小桥上，但是到了大概十年前，爱之锁开始在巴黎、罗马、佛罗伦萨、科隆、布拉格，甚至都柏林四散开来。但从未到过此处，从未到过英国。
故事永远都是相同的。一把挂锁会在一夜之间突然出现，情人相会的证明、浪漫时刻的见证。数日之后，就会有其他人加入，接着会有更多的人……直到，就像大主教桥上那样，它们几乎变成了桥梁本身“存在的理由”。那么为什么爱之锁这么久才到达伦敦呢？而且为什么会在如今出现呢？
在那个阴雨的周一，我在千禧桥上数到了13把爱之锁。到了那个周末，当我再次查看时，有27把。
或许是游客们的举动。或许是伦敦的情侣们在效仿他们在巴黎旅行时的所见所闻。又或许只不过是在全世界所有伟大的城市里时不时会发生的随机事件之一罢了。
或许——就像在巴黎，或罗马，或甚至在二战时期的弗尔尼亚奇卡矿泉镇——每一把小锁都鼓励了另一把的到来。
或许，即便我们在这场盛会中姗姗来迟，我们英国人毕竟还是个浪漫的民族。
当今年春季，海蒂和我为我们自己的巴黎挂锁拍照时，当我们记下地点，其后在谷歌地图上找到确切的坐标时，当我们保存下那条唯一的钥匙时，我们的心里一直怀有一个相当美妙的念头——要为将来留下一些物件，一些能够证明我们也曾相爱的物件。
我们将会留下那张照片，那条钥匙，那些地图坐标，在我们的遗嘱里：密封在一个信封里，上面书写着我们曾在那里的日期。我们将会把那信留给我们的孩子们，并附带指示，要他们继续往后代传，就这样一直流传下去。
我脑海中浮现过一个可爱的画面：我们的重孙女，在大约2090年时去巴黎度蜜月，用GPS定位器指路，在穿过塞纳河的途中，寻找一把铜制的小挂锁，上面书写着她祖先们的名字，在历经多年的风霜后依然淡淡地依稀可辨。
如果这都不算浪漫，那我不知道浪漫为何物了。
It’s our first weekend away together since the children were born five years ago.
The sun is shining and it’s a beautiful day in the city of love.
Ahead， the Pont de l’Archevêché—a bridge linking the Ile de la Cité with the artistic Left Bank. And as we approach it， the most extraordinary， the most Parisian， sight either of us had ever seen.
The 1）railings of the bridge， from bank to bank across the Seine， are covered in 2）padlocks. All shapes and sizes， brass， steel， black and red. And each adorned with its own message—some scrawled with marker pen， others carefully engraved. There must have been thousands of them.
They are messages of love， written by lovers and locked onto the bridge. They glittered and sparkled in the sun—an oddly beautiful mosaic above the river.
Naturally， Heidi and I found a shop， bought a padlock of our own， wrote our names and the date on it， bagged a free spot on the bridge， and left our own symbol.
We threw the keys （all but one） into the Seine， took a photo of our lock， made a note of the location and chalked the whole thing up to the sort of experience you would only ever have in Paris.
That sort of thing—the grand romantic gesture， the transforming of the everyday into the extraordinary， the finding of poetry in something so 3）mundane as a padlock—it could only happen on the Continent. We British would never think of it. We’re simply too…well， British.
Fast-forward three months and I’m walking across the Millennium Bridge in London on a 4）dank and rainy Monday morning in July.
Commuters hurry over the Thames， heads down， collars up， struggling against the wind. Even tourists barely pause to snap St Paul’s or the Tate Modern. Tower Bridge is scarcely visible through the gloom. And then something catches my eye...
Swinging 5）gaily on one of the wire railings， there is a shiny brass padlock. And a few metres further on， there’s another. And another. And then a pair together. And then a cluster of five， another group of three. Each with messages， couples’ names， dates. One has a heart painted on it. Another simply reads“FOREVER”.
The love locks of Paris， have， it seems， come to London town.
Now， I am not an especially romantic person. I’ve had my moments—but more often than not， 6）pragmatism and traditional English reserve tend to temper most attempts at grand gestures. And I remember it clearly： spring 2004， I was drinking and playing pool with my best mate， Pat. She was in her flat on the other side of London， nursing the flu.
Suddenly I realised that rather than drinking Guinness and having fun with my friend， I would actually rather be sober and helping my girlfriend recover.
So did I throw down my 7）cue， run out of the pub， fly across town and turn up at her door， breathless and clutching a dozen red roses and a packet of 8）Lemsip？ No. I sent her a text： “I bloody love you I do.”
When I proposed （on Heidi’s 34th birthday， in May 2005）， I didn’t dare buy a ring myself in case I got a style she didn’t like—so I did it with a 9）replica that came free with my Lord Of The Rings Director’s Cut box set （“One ring to rule them all，” it says， in ancient， ahem， Elvish script）.
I also spent an hour trying to tie it on a scarlet ribbon around her cat’s neck—before getting scratched so badly I had to abandon the idea.
I’ve kept that Lord Of The Rings ring， however. It’s stayed in my wallet ever since.
Even Heidi’s 40th passed without too much romance. We were moving house at the time， plus our car had just been written off and the magazine I was working on had folded， so money was tight. I did manage to get tickets to see her favourite band， Pulp， play Hyde Park， mind…
So， as I said， I don’t really do grand gestures—but there are occasions when even the most reserved （or hopeless） of us stumble across something and find our hearts lifted by la vie romantique. And when we saw the love locks on the Pont de l’Archeveche， there was no way I was going to let the opportunity pass to immortalise our own feelings for each other.
As it turns out， the tradition is far older than one might think： it originated in Serbia during World War II， when couples from the town of Vrnjacka Banja symbolically sealed their love before the men went off to fight.
They were mostly confined to that single bridge in Serbia， however， until around a decade ago when they started springing up in Paris， Rome， Florence， Cologne， Prague， even Dublin. But never over here； never in Britain.
The story was always the same. One padlock would appear overnight， a 10）testimony to a lovers’ 11）tryst， a 12）memento of a romantic moment. Within days， it would be joined by others， and then more still…until， as on the Pont de l’Archeveche， they become almost a raison d’être for the bridge itself. So why has it taken so long for the love locks to come to London？ And why are they appearing now？ On that rainy Monday， I counted 13 love locks on the Millennium Bridge. By the end of the week， when I checked again， there were 27.
Perhaps it’s the tourists. Or perhaps it’s British couples copying what they’ve seen while on a trip to Paris. Or perhaps it’s just one of those spontaneous things that happen every now and then in all the great cities of the world.
Perhaps—as in Paris， or Rome or even in Vrnjacka Banja during World War II—each tiny padlock is inspiring another.
Perhaps， even if we have arrived a little late to the party， we Brits are a romantic nation after all.
When Heidi and I took a photo of our own Parisian padlock this spring， when we noted down the location， and later found the exact co-ordinates on Google Earth， when we kept that single key， it was all done with one rather wonderful idea in mind—to leave something for the future. Something to show that we， too， were in love.
We’re going to leave that photo， that key， those map co-ordinates， in our will： sealed in an envelope with the day we were there written on it. We’re leaving it for our children， with instructions to pass it on to their children， and so on.
I’ve got a lovely mental image of our greatgrandchild， on her honeymoon in Paris in the year 2090 or so， stopping halfway across the Seine with a GPS locator， looking for a little brass padlock with the names of her ancestors written on it， still faintly 13）legible after all those years.
And if that’s not romantic， I don’t know what is.
想想这样一幅景象。春天的巴黎：复活节周日的清晨，在巴黎圣母院旁的广场上，我的妻子海蒂和我正手拉手在教堂旁边的樱花树下漫步。
这是自孩子们五年前出生以来，我们第一次在外地过周末。
阳光灿烂，这正是爱之城中美丽的一天。
在前方，是大主教桥——一座连接着西岱岛与有着浓厚艺术气息的左岸的小桥。而当我们走近它时，一幅我俩都从未见过的最不同寻常、最巴黎风的景象跃入了我们的眼帘。
小桥的栏杆，横跨过塞纳河的两岸，上面布满了挂锁。形状各异，大小不一，铜制的，钢制的，黑色的，还有红色的。每一把都装点着独有的信息——有些是用记号笔潦草写画上去的，有些则是小心翼翼地刻上去的。桥栏上估计挂满了成千上万把这样的锁。
那些都是爱的信息，由恋人们书写并锁在小桥上，在阳光下闪闪发光——就像河面上一幅奇特而美丽的马赛克。
当然了，海蒂和我找到了一间小店，也买了一把属于我们自己的挂锁，在上面写上了我们的名字和日期，然后将其悬挂在小桥上的一处空位上，留下了我们自己的标记。
我们将钥匙（留下一条外所有的）扔进了塞纳河里，为我们的挂锁拍了张照片，记录下位置，整件事被我们认为是只能在巴黎体验到的经历。
那种事情——那种极度浪漫的举动，那种将日常生活化作非凡体验的转变，那种在诸如挂锁这样的世俗之物中发现诗意的事情——只可能在欧洲大陆上发生。我们英国人永远都不会想出来的。我们只不过是太……嗯，英国了。
时间快进三个月，我在七月一个潮湿下雨的周一清晨走过伦敦的千禧桥。
上班的人群匆匆穿过泰晤士河，低着头，竖着衣领，挣扎着逆风而行。即便是游客也很少停下来为圣保罗大教堂或泰特现代艺术馆拍照。昏暗中伦敦塔桥几不可见。然而就在那时，什么东西吸引了我的视线……
有一把亮闪闪的铜锁正在一根桥栏上快乐地晃动着。而再往前几米之外，还有一把。再有一把。接着有一对挂在一起。再接着有一串五把。另一群三把。每一把上都留有信息，情侣们的名字和日期。有一把上面画着一颗心。另一把上简单地写着“直到永远”。 巴黎的爱之锁，看起来，也来到了伦敦。
现在要说的是，我并不是个特别浪漫的人。我也有过浪漫的时刻——不过大多数情况下，实用主义和传统的英式内敛会平复掉想要做出惊天举措的企图心。
而我非常清楚地记得这么一个时刻：那是2004年的春天，我正边喝酒，边和我最好的伙伴帕特一起打台球。海蒂正在自己位于伦敦另一边的公寓里，因流感在家休养。
突然之间，我意识到与其喝着黑啤与朋友玩乐，实际上我更愿意头脑清醒地照顾女朋友康复。
那我是不是就这么扔下球杆，跑出酒吧，飞奔过城市，攥着一打红玫瑰和一包感冒药，上气不接下气地出现在她家门前呢？没有。我只是给她发了一条短信：“我爱死你了，真的。”
当我求婚时（2005年5月，在海蒂34岁生日的那天），我不敢自己去买戒指，以防买到的款式她不喜欢——于是我用了一个复制品，那是与我的盒装《指环王导演剪辑版》一起送来的免费随赠品（上面刻着“一枚戒指统领众戒”，用古老的，嗯，精灵语字体）。
我还花了一个小时试图用一根鲜红色的缎带将其系在她家猫咪的脖子上——差点被严重抓伤，最终不得不放弃那念头。
不过，我一直保存着那枚“指环王”戒指。从那以后，它一直躺在我的钱包里。
甚至连海蒂度过40岁生日时都没有多少浪漫举措。我们那时正在搬家，此外我们的汽车也要报废了，而我工作的那家杂志也停刊歇业了，所以我们手头很紧。不过我还是设法弄到了门票去看她最爱的乐队——果浆乐队在海德公园的演出，想起来了……
所以，就像我说的，我并不会真的做出惊天举措——但有些时候，即便是我们之中最保守的（或者说是不可救药的）人也会碰上某些事物，然后发现我们的心被“浪漫人生”所触动。所以当我们见到大主教桥上的那些爱之锁时，如此寄情恒久的机会，我又怎么会让其白白溜走呢。
原来，这个传统要比我们想象的更为古老：其起源于二战时期的塞尔维亚，在弗尔尼亚奇卡矿泉镇的男子们出征战斗之前，情侣们会象征性地封缄他们的爱情。
起初大多数只局限于塞尔维亚的那条唯一的小桥上，但是到了大概十年前，爱之锁开始在巴黎、罗马、佛罗伦萨、科隆、布拉格，甚至都柏林四散开来。但从未到过此处，从未到过英国。
故事永远都是相同的。一把挂锁会在一夜之间突然出现，情人相会的证明、浪漫时刻的见证。数日之后，就会有其他人加入，接着会有更多的人……直到，就像大主教桥上那样，它们几乎变成了桥梁本身“存在的理由”。那么为什么爱之锁这么久才到达伦敦呢？而且为什么会在如今出现呢？
在那个阴雨的周一，我在千禧桥上数到了13把爱之锁。到了那个周末，当我再次查看时，有27把。
或许是游客们的举动。或许是伦敦的情侣们在效仿他们在巴黎旅行时的所见所闻。又或许只不过是在全世界所有伟大的城市里时不时会发生的随机事件之一罢了。
或许——就像在巴黎，或罗马，或甚至在二战时期的弗尔尼亚奇卡矿泉镇——每一把小锁都鼓励了另一把的到来。
或许，即便我们在这场盛会中姗姗来迟，我们英国人毕竟还是个浪漫的民族。
当今年春季，海蒂和我为我们自己的巴黎挂锁拍照时，当我们记下地点，其后在谷歌地图上找到确切的坐标时，当我们保存下那条唯一的钥匙时，我们的心里一直怀有一个相当美妙的念头——要为将来留下一些物件，一些能够证明我们也曾相爱的物件。
我们将会留下那张照片，那条钥匙，那些地图坐标，在我们的遗嘱里：密封在一个信封里，上面书写着我们曾在那里的日期。我们将会把那信留给我们的孩子们，并附带指示，要他们继续往后代传，就这样一直流传下去。
我脑海中浮现过一个可爱的画面：我们的重孙女，在大约2090年时去巴黎度蜜月，用GPS定位器指路，在穿过塞纳河的途中，寻找一把铜制的小挂锁，上面书写着她祖先们的名字，在历经多年的风霜后依然淡淡地依稀可辨。
如果这都不算浪漫，那我不知道浪漫为何物了。