I read a lot of Austen and Brontes when I was young and precocious so I had high expectations of love. I also had no experience of long term relationships and a one way ticket to New Zealand so meeting The One seemed unlikely.
And yet I did.
Picture the fairy tale: post-work drinks a few months pre-smoking ban. I was out with a friend (see Intuition post) and we were looking for a seat in the sun. We found one with a charming chap and his surly looking mate. Guess which one I married two years later? Yup, I made it my life’s work to get that miserable bugger to cheer up.
We courted and gad about until I went off travelling. He flew out to join me and we walked up glaciers, abseiled down caves and swam in lakes until he flew home and left me moping.
A few years and a ticket home later, we were in our cagoules eating satsumas on Hadrian’s Wall when we decided we were going to get married.
And so we did. We married at my parents’ house and barn danced the night away under the musty canopy of the village marquee. My dress was from a charity shop and the food was from the kebab house and the beer was Master Brew and plentiful. It was ace.
Seven years and two kids later and we are alright and I’m alright with alright because any more than that seems to lead to lonely wandering on moors or being rescued from burning beds and such like so here’s to ticking along nicely. Happy anniversary, hotpants.