Wedding Plans

Yes, I know. When you've lived with someone for twenty-eight years, it hardly seems worth getting married, does it? It's like announcing to your family that you've bought a pet after they've been looking after Fido or Tiddles for you every time you've gone on holiday for the past three decades. 

        As a statement of romantic commitment, it seems hardly worth saying, does it? When you've shared a home with a person for so long, you've kinda made it clear that you're prepared to tolerate his noisy eating and the way he re-interprets your instructions to suit himself, because he's such a good nurse when you're ill and he's so thoughtful and kind - or, in his case, that he can tolerate your outbursts of irrational rage and your nagging because you’re so sexy and beautiful...

        It was Covid what dun it, gov. We were all plunged into this terrible pandemic and suddenly it seemed like maybe we ought to tie the knot finally after all. I mean, if we're on our way to Apocalypse Very Soon, we ought to be legally-bound to each other in respectable matrimony, didn't we? That will surely ensure we survive the End Times, won't it? - or at least that we’ve one good party before one or both of us expires.

        Initially, we wanted to just sneak off to the register office and commit to each other secretly and privately. No fuss. No Oom-pah-pah. We wouldn't even have to tell anyone (except the registrar and the witnesses). If we didn't have the money for a fully-fledged 'proper' wedding, then we could have a very cheap clandestine one instead. What a hoot! Everyone would think we were still living in sin, when, unbeknown to them, in fact we'd actually be legally wed. It could be our guilty secret. I mean, I actually like the notion that I've been 'living in sin' for twenty-eight years - it sounds racy and exciting, even though the reality is that it's exactly like being married but without the rings and the tax breaks. I like my friend referring to my partner as my 'Live-in Lover' - way cooler than 'my husband'! So being secretly married would have meant we looked like unconventional rebels on the outside while, behind the scenes, being boringly betrothed.

        My sister put paid to that idea by pointing out that, if it ever got out (and, of course, inevitably, it would), our respective mums would be upset that they hadn't been invited to the wedding. So we gritted our teeth and booked the slightly larger ceremony suite at the Town Hall. As it turned out, my mum was mystified and told us she thought we were already married (?), and partner's mum was horrified at the thought of having to leave her house to attend the ceremony (self-isolation has become a way of life for her). She refused to go to the meal afterwards point-blank due to her belief that restaurants would a) serve her food she couldn’t actually eat (she considers capsicum peppers to be dangerously exotic) and/or b) give her portions far too large for human consumption.

        And this was only the start of what I can tell is going to become a typical Wilford-Badger catalogue of, if not exactly disasters, at least muddles. misunderstandings and potential mayhem. For one thing, I will have to wear high heels and that means, given my recent track record, there’s a high chance I’ll fall over at some point during the ceremony, probably while reciting my vows. I'm not kidding - this is a serious possibility. My most recent fall was during a sedate walk on a completely flat canal path, while wearing completely flat walking shoes. On that occasion, I landed face down, performed a comic skid and my head rebounded against the floor like a gong against a cymbal but less melodically. And then I made it worse by shouting ‘F***ing sh***ing hell, not again!’ at the top of my voice just as a couple in their mid-nineties sprinted over to ask if they could help. Hands laminated with industrial grit, forehead swelling to Klingon-like proportions, and muttering apologies, I hobbled to a nearby wall next to a road to wait for partner to bring the car round, and pretended I always went hiking wearing trousers with the knees ripped out and with only one lens in my glasses. I have a friend who also falls over a lot, and we don’t tend to go out for walks together in public any more for fear of being mistaken for Abbott and Costello.

So walking slowly across a carpeted indoor room will be no guarantee that I won’t fall over. Some of these municipal carpets have really thick piles.