I have just realised what day it is today.
On this day thirty eight years ago, I made an honest woman of Herself.
Thirty. Eight. Fucking. Years.
The odd time, in a moment of insecurity Herself will ask me if I would do it all over again. I suppose I would. The wedding itself was great craic, or so I am told. I don’t remember that much about it which is always a sign of a good party.
[38 years? Shit!]
We have had our ups and downs over the years, of course but in the course of time I have become quite fond of the old boot. Unlike some wives, she pulls her weight [*cough*] and is quite good at the menial jobs around the place, like lugging sacks of coal or re-roofing the extension. Once she has her gin, her Valium, a good supply of cigarettes and a soppy programme to watch on television she can be quite reasonable company of an evening.
[38 years? Fuck! Still can’t get over that]
So would I do it all over again?
Yes, I would.
It could have been worse.
I could have married her sister.