First of all, huge congratulations to Lord H and me for having been married fifteen years today, hurrah! Have a glass of champagne on us to celebrate:
And we have a bottle cooling in the fridge for tonight as well, hurrah (medicines or no medicines, dammit)! Premier cru vintage too – not that I’ve ever found anything to better Tesco’s blanc de blanc £12.00 standard, but heck live dangerously for once, eh. Apparently, fifteen years married entitles us to crystal, glass or a watch. As we don’t need any of those things, we have settled for clothes, books and the CD of Purcell’s Fairy Queen, which is on the menu for next year’s Glyndebourne. There’s nothing like a piece of baroque music to lift the spirits, to my mind – although Lord H is less keen, bless ‘im. He’s more an appreciator of modern atonal music, if truth be told. At least, more than I am anyway.
More than all that though, I am at last wearing the eternity ring – triple hurrahs and wave the bunting in all directions. And it’s seriously beautiful. I love it hugely. Goodness my left hand is sooooo heavy now that it’s astonishing I can type at all … I love love love it. It’s looks amazing with the engagement ring, and without. And with. And without. But with is my favourite. Well, having it on at all is my favourite, actually. In case you hadn’t guessed that. But, glory be, it’s true – I have at last turned into my jewellery-obsessed (keep the ring! Always keep the ring!) mother, Lord preserve us. Arrrrggghhh!!!
But thinking of fifteen years of wedded bliss (which probably translates as 12 years of wedded bliss and 3 years of arguments, but hey that’s a damn good ratio, I feel) has brought me out in an unexpected fit of nostalgia, Lord preserve us. Again. I have to admit to totally and absolutely loving my wedding day – even though I also have to admit it was the start of a huge and unsurmountable split in the family, which in itself was well, well overdue. So you could say that in some aspects it was in fact the day I began to grow up. And as I got married at 29, growing up was long overdue also. Anyway, the wedding was fabulous – the dress (something simple and ivory with no fuss) really suited me, so much so that even my stepfather said how good I looked (and was rightly astonished to be saying such a thing as well!); the trumpeter turned up with his trumpeter son (whom we never did paid for as they very sweetly waived his fee as they’d had such a good time) and looked amazing in their bright, military-style suits. And the way they played really made the day – they sounded astonishing. I remember thinking as they and the organ played Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring as we were signing the register that it was, and would always be, the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard. Fifteen years later, they still hold that honour. And I’m still grateful.
More than all of this though was the way that everything around us simply vanished when Lord H and I were saying our vows to each other and we suddenly and somehow genuinely were the only people in the church and possibly the only people on the planet. I’ve only ever had that incredibly magical feeling twice: once when Lord H and I first kissed (and to make everything vanish in the middle of a busy night out in London is some damn trick, I can tell you); and once on our wedding day. It was great. I’m sorry I probably can’t explain the sensation any further, but I’m glad it happened once, and incredibly lucky it happened twice. I do understand that.
And now, fifteen years on, I can honestly say that Lord H is the only man I’ve ever been out with who has never, not even once, bored me. Enraged me to the point of screaming, had me darkly wondering if spousicide is a real word, yes – but bored me, never. There’s always something more to find out, in my experience. The Lord H pool runs pretty damn deep and I doubt I’ll ever find the bottom. Not in this lifetime anyway.
Though, talking of bottoms (careful, people, careful …), and to bring my marriage monologue to an end (have I said we’ve been married fifteen years today?), I have picked up my other prescription from the hospital and now have an Estradot oestrogen patch stuck to my bottom. Ho hum, from the sublime to the ridiculous eh – I am indeed the mistress of that mystic art. The patch is damn small too, so one hopes I don’t lose it on the vast acreage of my behind. Which is strange as it comes in an enormous wrapper about ten times its size (the patch – not my bottom …) – when I’d ripped it open I did think at first there was nothing in it and I’d been sold a bum (sorry!) steer. As it were. But I eventually found it and stuck it on with the aid of a good mirror and some squinting. Apparently I have to wear it for three days (I’m told it even stays on in the bath, well gosh) before I rip it off and shove the next one on. My, what fun we do have here in the cultural outback of Godalming.
What with all this huge excitement, I have only done a few sentences of Hallsfoot’s Battle today, so am now just in at 36,000 words or so. Would be nice to hit the big 40,000 marker before the end of September for sure. And I’ve had a two-hour nap – well, being married for fifteen years is quite exhausting, you know, and I don’t want to wear myself out too soon. Tonight, we have lasagne, ice cream and champers to look forward to. I’m sure that will help keep my strength up – all good healthy stuff, you know!
Today’s nice things:
1. Our 15th wedding anniversary
2. Our 15th wedding anniversary
3. Our 15th wedding anniversary (did I tell you that yet?…)