Yesterday was the 3rd Annual You Rawk Day. Forget all those weddings, this is the one I consider to be our proper anniversary.
Standing on the platform in the chilly night air, my breath shot out in anxious, near-hysterical puffs… five long months since we'd met at a pub quiz, the time was ripe to make my move! With the train rattling towards us there was potential for a dramatic and memorable moment, like Anna Karenina or something. But an ill-timed lunge, my kiss landing somewhere up his left nostril, was hardly something to tell the grandkiddies. Neither was me blurting, "You rawk!" before fleeing onto the train.
I was so mortified that when the conductor came round I bought a ticket to the wrong destination. I still lug it round in my wallet every day and take it out now and then, remembering the chill of his nose and the unbearable agony of eye contact.
There's no problem meeting each others gaze these days. You never know what you will see there – teasing, patience, laughter, understanding, comfort, or the evil glint before one executes a triumphant fart. I was getting overly sentimental the other day, telling him about the rush of relief and anticipation I get each time I trudge home, knowing he'll be there working away on some engineery shite, wearing his finest tracky-dacks and smelling of soap and coffee. He smiled and patted my needing-a-wash hair and said, "Mmm, feels like bacon." This week he wrote To moi woife on my birthday card. Taking the piss out of the Aussie accent as usual, but it melted me to see that down on paper. Happy anniversary, Doctor G. I loike being your woife.