9th wedding anniversary

Himself proposed one Easter Saturday, 9 years ago. We still had our beloved boat which he was restoring, and we went down to Restronguet to see her. (For once he was having a weekend off so I actually saw him.) In fact I remember being grumpy that we were going to see her at all, but he put down a ladder and said ‘come on, I’ve got something to show you’.

We clambered down into the boat which was, at that time, ribs and not much else, and he went down on one knee and asked me to marry him. Well – how could I say no?

Then followed the difficult bit. We made a list of everyone we wanted to invite to the wedding. Then another list of the people we should invite. It came to over 250 people, and neither of us wanted a big wedding.

“I think we should keep it quiet,” Himself said. “We’re going to Gibraltar for a holiday anyway – let’s get married out there.”

So I organised that, but keeping it quiet from the family was difficult. One evening my oldest brother rang up and said, “My wife thinks you’re going to Gib to get married.”

“We are,” I hissed. “But don’t tell anyone else.”

I put down the phone and it rang again. This time it was my mother. “You wouldn’t get married without telling me, would you?” said a wobbly voice.

I sat there wondering what to do. If I said no I’d be lying. If I said yes, she’d be utterly miserable. I can’t remember what I did say but I must have fudged something.

I then went next door and said to Himself, “We have to tell the family. It’s not fair.”

He agreed, and in the end we had a family do as it was Mum’s 70th birthday party the weekend before we were due to get married, so we saw all the family and flew off to Gib.

Life hasn’t been easy over those 9 years – well, 12 years since we met. But no relationship is ever easy. We’ve weathered a few storms, had our fair share of screeching rows, but our sense of humour has kept us together. And after all, what is life without a laugh?

Talking of which, Himself’s diet is going so well that he decided, on our wedding anniversary, to give up alcohol. (You can see how much celebrating we did last night.) He has a sense of timing, you could say, though this was after a few nights of drinking gin. When I pointed out that gin was three times as strong as wine, he said, “Don’t be ridiculous, Pop. It’s three timed distilled.”

Sometimes I’ve learnt it’s easier not to pursue certain matters. This was one of them.

Anyway, Day One of sobriety went well – but as in our marriage, we’ll take it day by day.

Who knows what tomorrow will bring?

Recipe for a happy marriage

The U3A brigaade weren’t going whale watching, after all (that’s what happened last year), but on a sedate adventure to Le Havre and back via Scilly. A wonderful trip, you would think, in balmy weather (or it was on Saturday when they left). But I’ve never come across such a disgruntled, unhappy lot. Intelligent, they may have been, but possessed not a scrap of common sense.

They questioned having to leave their passports in the purser’s office (standard procedure), moaned about having to take their own hand luggage on board, and we were all pleased to see the back of them. My smile was stretched to breaking point by 2.30pm, when I somehow managed to say to one particularly obnoxious couple, ‘have a LOVELY trip.’

The husband looked up at me and suddenly shut up. He could probably see the venom emanating from my nostrils.

I was telling Himself this on Saturday evening. Then, as things do after a much need visit to the pub, it turned into a Philosophical Discussion which went like this. (Stop reading now if you are easily offended.)

‘We come from a fairly doomed family,’ said Himself. (You can tell he’d had a few Large Ones.)

‘You mean you’re fxxxed?’ I asked.

‘Well, our home environment was hardly inspirational.’ He paused. ‘Meeting you was –’ he paused and scratched his balls. ‘I don’t want to drop myself in it,’ he said at last and took another fortifying gulp of wine.

I waited for him to do just that.

‘I think I was ready – like a piece of beef – for a different kind of life.’

‘A piece of beef?’ I snorted. ‘No wonder I don’t eat much meat.’

He looked up and those blue eyes twinkled. ‘I spent all my life in the sh*t, Flowerpot. Since I met you, these last 11 years, it’s just the depth that’s changed.’

I could see this conversation wasn’t going quite the way I had been expecting.

‘I’ve been in it closely up to my nostrils,’ he said, clearly getting whimsical. ‘Since I met you it’s got up to the top of my ears, but I probably got oxygen from somewhere.’

I giggled at the thought of him, like a pig in clover – except that it wasn’t clover of course. He caught my look and grinned. ‘I’m calling on my expertise for scuba driving,’ he said, slurring just a little bit as he poured himself another generous glass of wine.

‘Scuba driving?’

He grinned. ‘Yes, scuba driving. That accounts for my survival. Either that or I can hold my breath for up to 11 years.’

I can see the headlines now. SCUBA DRIVING! THE NEW SPORT FOR A HAPPY MARRIAGE!

Compatibility

This weather is getting to me. I’m normally volatile, but this rain is dragging me down into its liquid muddy depths. I don’t mind getting wet, but yesterday I was SOAKED three times. Twice walking Mollie and once in town. This ensured Very Bad Mood and when Himself got back from work, I wasn’t speaking to him either. (He’s lucky in this aspect – he would only have got an earful.)

After a glass of wine I was slightly more affable and anyway, Himself was busy boring over a flying magazine that had been sent to him featuring an incident that occurred when he was 16 (more later). So he’s nearly famous as well and that cheered him no end.

When I think of how different Himself and I are, it’s amazing that we actually speak to each other, let alone get on. For instance:-

I am quite a sociable creature; he is not.
My idea of a good evening out is with friends, going to the cinema or theatre, having a drink or two. He’d rather stay at home with a bottle of wine. Unless there’s any jazz on, in which case he’d rather go and see jazz, which is a type of music I’m not very keen on.
I eat very little meat; he likes meat and two veg every day.
I’m not very interested in food, whereas he will spend hours poring over recipe books, before cooking a meal.
I love long walks with a friend and Mollie.
He doesn’t like walking at all, but comes on the short morning one under duress.
I love singing; he doesn’t.
I love ballet and most forms of dance; he doesn’t, though he has been known to lurch round at a pub disco when sufficiently inebriated.
I am mostly hyperactive, whereas he has a slow metabolism.
I sleep naked, as I’m always boiling hot, while he sleeps in a sweatshirt.

Our differences serve to provide lively debate (for which read, heated arguments, imminent divorce, wine glass thrown across room, depending on the state of my hormones). Topics to avoid are Children (see earlier blog). Abortions (light touch paper and stand back). Politics. Iraq. My family. His family – or an appendage to his family (a Long Story).

So what do we talk about? Er – I’ll just see if I can remember…

So far we’ve managed eleven years together. I wonder how much longer we can survive under one roof without killing each other?