So, here’s the kicker. There are some girls – when they are young, and playing Barbie’s and such, start dreaming about their wedding and their dress and their ring and the like. I was not such a girl. While I was fond of dressing a good Barbie – it was about the fashion and the accessories, never about the wedding.
In later years, the teens, I didn’t get tied down to anyone and was quite happy hanging out at party central with my friends – something that saw me through nearly eight years. So still, no thinking about weddings and dresses and rings etcetera. Which I suppose one might think was strange but when you are clubbing six nights a week, there really isn’t much time to reflect on such things.
In 1994 after a very belated gap year, I returned home with no intention of staying for any length of time. I even got a job as a receptionist/head of entertainment at a firm of accountants. Enter The Artist. Now it must be said that perhaps I would not have even noticed The Artist especially, except for the fact that he was the only person in the building that arrived (late) and walked past my desk without saying hello. Yes sirree Bob! Challenge accepted. And the rest, shall we say is history. I hunted him down like a hunter after a wild boar and a year later (it was a slow process) we were dating and a year after that a wedding was happening. Except I didn’t have a bloody clue what I was doing or what I wanted. It was fundamentally a fucking disaster. Even if I say so myself.
So we fast forward to today. I wake up, bad bad headache and very painful limbs. Cancer I think. Cancer for sure. Then I remember that yesterday we took the dog for a walk to Coogee and back and it dawns on me that despite the recent Hot Yoga sessions, my body is not being friendly towards anything other than cycling on a spin bike. Sad days I tell you. So after chugging some Panadol and clearing my head it dawns on me that “oh shit” it’s the wedding anniversary (truth be told my iPhone reminded me but let’s not go there). So I yell through the bathroom door “Hey, Oscar, happy anniversary!’ It then dawns on me, the irony of the bathroom door and yelling Oscar. Good thing no-one had a gun hey?
Yeah, so 18 years, no guns, no-one’s killed anyone and we have two
hell children teenage girls and a most beloved dog. We’ve moved king and country and survived.
Happy anniversary Babe. Love you long time.
Love and light