It is our wedding anniversary.
We have been married for ages, even longer, as Mark explained to Oliver this morning, than Oliver has been alive.
Not longer than Lucy has been alive, as anybody who attended our wedding will no doubt remember. We made the mistake of giving her some new shoes for being a bridesmaid, they made a lovely clacking noise when she walked. She liked this very much indeed. Halfway through the service Elspeth captured her and removed them, much to everybody’s relief. Even so she was determined to join in, and we were married with each of us holding Lucy’s hand instead of one another’s.
It wasn’t really the happiest day of my life. In fact it was a jolly scary day, and I spent rather a lot of it worrying about things that I should have organised better, it didn’t dawn on me until the last minute that I hadn’t thought about how I might get to the church until Elspeth’s husband turned up and asked if I would like a lift.
Mark and I had a best man each, because the idea of being given away like a milk goat or a raffle prize repelled my feminist soul, and so instead my friend Colin was allowed to be my token male, and to march down the aisle behind me as a sort of gentleman bridesmaid, much to his amusement. Anyway, there was some confusion about suits, and he had to dash over to the church to meet Mark and do a quick strip-down and exchange in the vestry at the last minute.
We were married in Coniston church, which was just around the corner from where we lived at the time. We had to have some serious discussions with the vicar first about the function of the Christian church and the role of belief, but in the end he let us be married even despite everything I said. We were so grateful we chucked a tenner in the collection every time we went to hear the banns being read.
It was a nice day, despite the terrible worries. Elspeth and the children filled the church with flowers. The first I saw of it was when I set off down the aisle, and it looked stunning, with kindly Mark waiting at the end of it. The children’s friends turned out in force, which was ace and made the party afterwards a much more lively affair.
All the same, being married is still a million times nicer than getting married. Getting married has got pretty dresses and lots of food and even more drink, but it is a jolly scary adventure.
I didn’t feel properly married until we sloped off to catch the overnight sleeper train from Carlisle to go to London for a honeymoon, and we could be by ourselves. Even that wasn’t really very nice, not the way it would be if we did it now, because I was just with some strange bloke who I thought I knew, not with my nice comfortable husband who knows exactly how I like my coffee and who knows not to touch my fingernails because it makes me shudder.
Mark drove us to Carlisle because he didn’t drink in those days.
Imagine being sober at your own wedding.
That didn’t last for very long. It didn’t take very much being married before he changed his mind about being teetotal as a life plan. This was nice from the point of view of me not needing to feel guilty and embarrassed about solitary intoxicated bad behaviour, but rubbish because it means we always have to get a taxi home these days.
We thought about being married this morning, by way of a celebration, over our coffee, and thought how much we still like it. What a splendid idea, to be able to spend your whole life living with your best friend.
I don’t think I would be able to manage to live with Elspeth. I’m jolly glad I’ve got Mark.
