I’d probably be a feminist if I wasn’t married. But I am married. So, instead, I content myself with being a vegetarian and not knowing or caring where the iron is. It was a great ‘do’ too – out in the middle of nowhere. The middle of nowhere is somewhere Dave and I know very well. Somewhere we have an uncanny knack of always finding our way back to. It’s a nice place. Quiet…
Dave drew the line at exchanging our vows before a fake Elvis and I drew the line at karaoke. So for our first dance, we rocked out to this:
We made a deal on Mahé. Elvis, circa 1969, would preside over our tenth anniversary renewal of vows – so long as we could then hit the card tables – in the City of Las Vegas. I honestly thought I’d be dusting off my dress and strutting up and down the Strip. It didn’t even occur to me that I’d likely require some serious corsetry to pull it off. (Get it on!)
Neither did it occur to either of us that we’d have already gambled all those thousands of pounds on the reports and testimonies of expert witnesses to offset the failings and lies of our LA at a Special Educational Needs and Disabilities Tribunal. Our chips didn’t stretch to a legal team so we walked in there representing ourselves. Representing our boy. And we won.
And so it was that we spent our tenth anniversary morning in a placement and transition meeting at the charity school where Boy will shortly begin the next chapter of what has, so far, been a ridiculously complicated educational journey. There’s a lot about our lives that’s ridiculously complicated. Parenthood has always been so, right from the very start. (But a further deal we made is that what happens in the delivery room, stays in the delivery room; so I’m not at liberty to say anything more about that.)
We exchanged cards (including an overdue birthday, Christmas and Valentine’s) and a pair of shiny new screwdrivers and spent what was left of our anniversary doing what all slightly unhinged couples do together on a wet bank holiday weekend – assembling a flat packed picnic bench in the rain.
If I were to cut out all the chocolate now, I might actually get back into that dress by our fifteenth or twentieth anniversary and, perhaps, also still have enough time left to stave off adult-onset diabetes. There will always be fake Elvises. Of all varieties. Vegas isn’t going anywhere and, for now at least, neither are we. And anyway, cards on the table, right now there’s nowhere other than home that I’d rather be. But I would really, really like to have the place all to myself a little (lot) more often! 😉