Love is: Always putting out my favourite cereal bowl or leaving Liquorice Allsorts on my pillow. The little, loving gestures that keep a marriage alive Small gestures such as making a cup of tea are more important to ensuring love lasts than grand romantic displays, according to a study of more than 5,000 people by the Open University. Here, five writers offer their own lessons on what keeps love alive. Learning to bite your tongue Author Anne de Courcy has been married twice, the first time for just two years before she was widowed. Five years later, she married lawyer Robert Armitage, with whom she had three children. They were married for 37 years until his death in 1999. She says: Kindness breeds kindness: Anne de Courcy's 36-year marriage to Robert Armitage endured because they were patient with each other Biting your tongue when faced with your husband's irritating habits might seem a small thing at the time but, with the benefit of hindsight, I've come to realise it's one of the most important ingredients for a happy marriage. In a long relationship you're bound to discover things about your other half that annoy you, and knowing when to keep your mouth shut is just as important - if not more so - than sharing loving words. Robert had many wonderful qualities, but tidiness wasn't among them. I did occasionally feel intensely annoyed about this - his habit of leaving coats strewn across the stairs after he'd returned home from work and his failure to put his towels back on the bath rail are examples that come to mind - but I made a supreme effort to keep my mouth shut about it. I'd remind myself of his many virtues, and think: 'Anne, get over it.' Once something's been said it can't be unsaid and if you start nagging, the chances are he'll bite back and an atmosphere of sniping irritability develops. If you are patient and tolerant when you do speak out about something that makes you unhappy, it means so much more. In the same vein, in a long marriage it's vital to give each other space. Both of us liked a 'quiet time' when we got back from work -- he liked reading the paper without interruption for a bit. And, yes, we would each do little kindnesses for each other as part of the fabric of daily life. He might buy me flowers, I would sew on buttons for him. I worked long hours in newspapers, but I would always go to the effort of putting together a proper breakfast every morning - poached eggs and bacon, toast, homemade marmalade and freshly ground coffee. Robert would reciprocate by having dinner cooked and on the table even if it was nine or ten when I arrived back. Kindness breeds kindness. And that's what makes a marriage work - when you strive to give more than you take. Having a good row to clear the air Novelist and model Sandra Howard, 73, has been married to her fourth husband, former Conservative party leader Michael Howard, 72, for 39 years. They have two children, Nicholas and Larissa, and four grandchildren, and Sandra also has a son from a previous marriage. Michael has a rather short temper whereas by nature I'm a calmer person; at the start of our marriage it was hard to imagine his temper would be a trait I'd ever find endearing. Cathartic: Sandra Howard, pictured in 1998 with her husband of four decades, believes a good row is healthy for a marriage But during the four decades we've been together I've not only discovered that Michael's explosions are brief - count to ten and they're usually over - but they're also one of the more surprising reasons we've remained happily married. He's particularly prone to blowing his top over my poor time-keeping and the fact that he's so demonstrative gives me licence to shout back. It's cathartic, an opportunity to get things off our chest, clear the air and move on. Most important: The small gestures of love that cost nothing are essential We've found we so enjoy our rows we'll pick arguments, often about the most trivial things. I'll shout at him for not remembering the name of a particular plant, while he'll berate me for not knowing the leader of an obscure Asian country. I've come to believe a good row is healthy for a marriage. Michael has always been good at conventional romantic gestures. He'll sometimes bring me flowers and always remember our wedding anniversary, whereas I once forgot. But more important are the small gestures of love that cost nothing, such as the fact that throughout our married life he's always brought me a cup of tea in bed in the morning because he knows I can't function without one. It might be below zero outside, but Michael will still pad downstairs to a chilly kitchen to put the kettle on. I love the fact that during his political career he didn't seek to shield me from his work, even as Home Secretary, but asked my opinion. I felt both trusted and respected. At political events, he will always keep an eye out for me, and if he sees I've been cornered by a bore he will come and rescue me. He can be spontaneous and positive, too, ready to nip out to see a film, to read me bits out of newspapers, make me laugh. He shares the grandparenting wholeheartedly, and always empties the dishwasher as he knows how much I hate doing it. Little gestures that show me he cares. Saying my cake is as nice as his mother's Jeannette Kupfermann, 72, is a former model-turned-anthropologist and writer. Her husband, Jacques, died in 1987. They have two children, Elias, 47, and Mina, 45. She lives in the Home Counties and says: The little things: Occasionally, Jeannette, pictured with Jacques in 1964, would arrive home to find he had left sweets on her pillow The box of lush red-and-yellow blooms was so enormous that I couldn't even see the delivery man behind them. They were the latest in a series of wonderful gifts that had been sent by the dashing young Viennese artist I was dating. He also presented me with a lavish Twenties' fur cape acquired at an auction and two box tickets to see Fonteyn and Nureyev in Marguerite And Armand at the Royal Opera House, for which he'd queued all night in the snow. My husband Jacques filled every day of our 24-year marriage with romantic gestures, big and small. He would just need to take one look at my expression to know how I was feeling - on happier evenings, he would put the needle on our record player and we would dance around the room to The Beatles; on more gloomy nights he would order Chinese food and draw me a bath where I would soak away my mood. Then we'd either discuss a painting he'd been working on or discuss one of my writing drafts. Then, if I'd been busy in the kitchen, we'd share a slice of my apple cake, which he would tell me (probably lying) was as good as his mother's. Occasionally, I would arrive home to find a small bunch of wild flowers or a brown paper bag of Liquorice Allsorts left on my pillow. And he never let me lose an argument with the children, relentlessly supporting me with a firm: 'Listen to your mother.' Of course, it's the little physical gestures that add tenderness - the consoling hand slipped into mine, the stroking of a cheek, the glances fleetingly exchanged, the pet-names, the funny little rituals like our special 'foot-walk', where I'd dance around the room on his feet like a two-year-old. These are the gestures I miss the most, but they've sustained me for a lifetime. A hand to hold in the bad times Novelist Kate Long, 49, has been married to Simon, 49, a community liaison officer, for 22 years and they have two sons, Ben, 16 and Toby, 13. The moments I have come to cherish most are from the toughest times. My mother, Margaret, then 77, had been admitted to hospital with a stomach abscess. For hours my husband Simon and I sat by her. Then at one point I was called away to discuss her prognosis. As I walked back onto the ward, I saw him turn in his chair, pour a tumbler of water and, with enormous tenderness, half-raise her while he held the glass to her mouth. The love I felt for him at that moment was overwhelming. In good times and in bad: Kate Long, pictured with her husband in 1992, has come to cherish the tough times It's strange, the things we believe prove a person's level of devotion. As a teenager, drunk on writers like Daphne du Maurier and the Brontes, I thought true love was all about suffering and storms, raging drama and exquisite despair. But back then I had no idea about the very unglamorous nature of life's trials: how the test of a supportive partner lies not in the grand gesture, but in the sum of a thousand tiny acts of kindness. Three years after my mother's recovery, and at the age of just 46, it was my husband's turn to be laid low. Horribly injured in a motorbike accident, he was unable to walk or use his left arm for six months. He was also in constant pain. It was a steep learning curve for both of us. Each day he'd need his wounds dressing and re-splinting, and then I'd have to help him wash and put on his clothes. Even his meals had to be chopped up because he couldn't use a knife and fork. 'I worry you won't love me now,' he said on more than one occasion, looking glumly at his scars and his wheelchair. In fact, he couldn't have been more wrong. Those days we struggled together, me marvelling at his physical courage and determined optimism, forged the bonds between us even tighter. I was so proud of the man I'd married. You hope when you make your wedding vows that you mean them, but you never know to what extent they'll be tested. All you can do, when the crisis hits, is reach for your partner's hand and hold on tight. n Kate's latest book, Bad Mothers United, is published by Simon & Schuster. He still tells me I'm beautiful TV presenter Janet Ellis, 58, has been married to TV producer John Leach for 25 years. They have two children Jackson, 26, and Martha, 23, and Janet is also mum to singer Sophie Ellis-Bextor, 34. Janet says: Like so many girls, I daydreamed about a romantic proposal from a man who would bring me flowers and shower me with exquisite jewellery. So when John asked me to marry him it was a bit of a disappointment. Yes, I had been married once before - to Sophie's father, for seven years - and admittedly John and I were already living together when I was carrying our son. But I was still expecting more than the casual proposal as we lay in bed one Sunday morning. Thoughtful: Janet, pictured with John, right, in 1986, are happy together even to this day However, what I hadn't properly yet appreciated was that it really is the tiny stuff that builds and binds a marriage. John doesn't have a romantic bone in his body. There have been very few flowers and only one piece of lingerie - a nightie. Cuddling doesn't come naturally to him either and I've had to persuade him to embrace - literally - hugs and kisses as a natural part of his day. But he always leaves out the cereal bowl he knows I like best for my morning muesli. And when we have friends round for a meal, and I offer up a familiar dish he's had many times before, he'll ask for seconds and lavish praise. A lifelong football fan, John sometimes records live games to watch later so I don't have to sit through them, too. As for me? I'm happy to iron his shirts as he likes them and stock up with one of his favourite sweet treats - liquorice. And we're a united front on the trivial things. While choosing door handles together and agreeing whether the landing light should stay on or off at night (we both like it off) might sound superficial issues, it's these, I believe, that often cause the most unhappiness and simmering resentment in a relationship. More so than disagreeing on the big subjects such as politics and religion. Do I feel invisible in my 50s? Not to this man. He'll whisper, 'You look beautiful' when we're in company and still makes me feel desirable, which is very nice after 25 years together and surely more important than any engraved eternity ring or second honeymoon.