Spoiler: It wasn’t the day Sergeant Pepper taught the band to play. It was the day I said, “I do”.
“Hi! Um… are you the bride?” asked a rather breathless and obsequious young lady with a very serious clipboard.
Ladies with clipboards are very rarely the bringers of good news.
I watched this one approach with curiousity and dread.
“Oh. Well. Um. You seem very calm?”
“Should I not be calm?”
“Oh. No. That wasn’t what… It’s just that most brides are quite panicky about things… Um.”
“Hang on. I’m paying a very large amount of money not to panic. Please God tell me that there is nothing to panic about?”
“Oh, no! No! There’s nothing. I didn’t mean to… It’s all under control.”
My father and I looked at each other, shrugged and continued to make a rather sizeable dent in a bottle of Jack Daniels whilst admiring my very pretty delicate shoes.
That’s pretty much the way I’ve handled my marriage for the last 20 years.
Although the Jack Daniels has been replaced with tea and the pretty little (blister inducing, serial killing, demons from hell) shoes with fuzzy socks and fluffy slippers.
I have to acknowledge that my idea of sexy lingerie has also changed.
When once a skimpy little negligée was the ticket, these days Spanx are as sexy as it gets.
That way we can pretend that I have curves as opposed to just the one – curve, that is.
I was looking forward to this anniversary.
I had taken a day off and laid the seeds for a little weekend getaway. I had my eye on a little platinum sparkly number at the jewelers.
Well, the best laid plans of pangolins and coronavirus and all that.
Instead, the only thing sparkly is my breath crystallizing in the frigid Arctic wind that has beset my home.
When I go to bed, I shall imagine that we’re spending the night in an ice hotel on some Scandinavian iceberg.
The sounds of my loved one‘s snores reminiscent of a growling polar bear.