It’s our wedding anniversary this weekend.
I had to delve into the recesses of my memory, but I’m fairly sure we got married in ‘75.
Thirty five fucking years!!!
It’s hard to believe.
During all that time, I am proud to say that I have remained
faithful loyal married, which must be some kind of record. If I were American, I would be onto my fifth or sixth by now, and sunning myself on a beach in Florida with a nice young twenty-something. But I’m Irish, so I’m stuck here in the mountains with Herself.
Apparently it’s our ‘jade anniversary’ which means I am supposed to buy her something to do with jade. She can fuck off. I know of a slapper called Jade who works in a nightclub in Skobieville, so I might make myself a present of her for the night, but that’s as far as it goes [apart from the follow up trip to the STD clinic?].
Thirty. Five. Fucking. Years.
I can’t get over it.
Half the population of this Godforsaken country wasn’t even born, thirty five years ago.
I’m not going to mention it, of course. With a bit of luck she’ll forget. And if she doesn’t, she had better get me a damned good present.
It had better be a fucking medal.