Happy anniversary

A few weeks ago it was our anniversary, and our plans were rather disrupted by meeting up with some Australian cousins that afternoon. Himself bought himself and Rob a pint, and when that was finished, Rob (Aussie cousin) eyed my husband. “You drink port?” he said.

“Of course,” said Himself, as if he drank it regularly. (Last time was 4 years ago.)

Rob came back with two huge schooners of port, and having downed his, Himself looked quite rosy and declared he was going to drive home.

“No way,” I said grabbing the keys.

“I haven't had much,” he said. “Port's nothing – like snow off a ditch.”

I held onto the keys and ignored him. On the way home he said, “Let's go and have a meal out to celebrate, Pop.” Then he said, “I'll pay.” That's when I knew he wasn't sober.

To be honest I'm not that fussed because a) it's expensive b) we usually have disappointing food c) Himself is a very good cook and c) I don't actually like eating out much. I get nervous with those hovering waiters and never know what to choose. But I knew he wanted to go, and was touched that he'd asked.

“That would be nice,” I said. And then came the problem of trying to decide where to go. We decided against our local pub, so I suggested the bar at the marina.

“No,” he said, “they've gone all modern with those square potatoes.” (Small pause while I choked with laughter at the idea of those poor spuds.) “I don't like food that's been F***ed around with, Pop.”

And that rather set the tone for the evening. We did go out in the end, but the wine was like vinegar, the portions were far too big which we both found offputting, and sitting opposite us were two of the hugest women I have ever seen (25 stone plus at a guess), eating their way through platefuls and platefuls of food.

Now, what shall we do next year?