This forthcoming Friday is our forty-fourth wedding anniversary.
Not significant in commercial terms, no precious metal or stone nor, to the best of my knowledge any spurious gap-filler of ... flowers or futons or figs. Nevertheless I see it as sort of significant if only for the fact that I was born in a house numbered forty four.
And because we started going out together on the fourth day of the fourth month. So I shall give this wedding anniversary a more apt attribution. I shall say this occasion is our lucky wedding anniversary.
We just wanted to be married, so we could live together, sleep together.
My mother wanted to be the Mother of the Bride and endlessly discuss weddings with her work colleagues, so would have preferred us to wait another six months at least.
His parents wanted us to get married in church, despite the fact that neither of us were believers. The hoops they made us jump through, in their attempts to persuade us included a deeply funny tea party to which his mother’d invited the vicar, overcoming her antipathy to his extreme blackness of skin in the hope that he’d talk some sense into us; he, however, appreciated our lack of hypocrisy.
I asked Steve’s recently widowed aunt to make my dress and jacket (nothing fancy – a simply shift) but she rather cocked it up.
My father got so fed up with all the aggravation about church weddings, and was nervous about making a speech, that he offered us £50 to elope to Gretna Green.
No comments:
Post a Comment