I married the bloke next door, an eightytwoyearold fellow, and he still swears it was his greatest folly.
When I told my sister, Clare, she almost choked on her scone.
Have you lost your mind?
Im fine, love. Hes not just eighty, hes a full eightytwo. Listen up.
His children popped round now and then. Theyd arrive, sigh, then off they went. This time they brought a brochure for retirement homes, as if he didnt fit their pace of life.
Dad, thats how it should be.
Should? Is life only a set of instructions? he shot back.
That very afternoon a knock at the door.
A glass of whisky in my hand, a spark in my eye.
Heres the plan: marry me, and they wont ship you off to a care home. Youre young, Im stubborn. Isnt that a perfect equation?
What’s in it for me? I asked, wary.
Ill cook a proper stew, spin yarns and never let you get bored.
Tempting indeed.
The wedding was a romanticabsurd affair:
me, in sensible shoes, no heels,
him, sporting a cravat from the last century,
the witnesses were a gaggle of kiosk regulars who laughed harder than they signed the register.
We became husband and wife, each in our own world, side by side.
Each morning hed heroically do five pushups on the bedroom floor.
I kept calling my coffee yesterdays revenge.
On Sundays the kitchen filled with the scent of stew and his warm stories.
Come evening, our banter turned playful:
Im still a proper lad!
Youre only a proper lad for the neighborhood pigeons.
One day the kids burst in like a specialops squad:
This is a scam!
The only scam I ever pulled was serving you coffee on New Years, he retorted.
When they asked what Id won, I looked at himalive, witty, genuine.
I won family warmth. A man I can laugh with over TV shows. And another who lights up when I walk through the front door.
After their dramatic exit, he set down a fresh mug of coffee.
They think Im mad.
Theyre right, I smiled.
Just like you.
So were perfect for each other.
Six months on:
He still rises at the crack of dawn,
I still ruin the coffee on purpose,
Sundays remain the tastiest day of the week.
Regret it?
Not a chance. Its the best bit of nonsense Ive ever known.
And you know what? Not once have I felt that this marriage was anything but real.
