I married the neighbour who was eightytwo. He still swears it was his finest bout of madness.
When I told my sister, she nearly fainted into her Victoria sponge.
Are you out of your mind? she gasped.
Its all right, I said. He isnt just eighty, hes a full eightytwo. Listen up.
His grownup children popped in now and thenarrived, sighed, and were off again. This time they brought leaflets for retirement cottages. Apparently his pace didnt match theirs.
Dad, thats how it should be, they said.
Should it? he replied. Is life nothing but a set of instructions?
That very afternoon there was a knock at the door.
A glass of claret in my hand, a sparkle of excitement in my eye.
Heres the plan: marry me and they wont send me to a care home. Youre young, Im stubborn. Isnt that a perfect formula?
Whats in it for me? I asked, eyebrow raised.
Ill cook a proper beef stew, spin yarns all night, and never let you get bored.
Tempting.
The wedding was a delightfully absurd affair.
I stood barefoot in heels, he sported a tie from the Edwardian era, and the witnesses were the lot from the nearest newsagent, who laughed more than they signed.
We became husband and wife, each in our own little world, merely side by side.
Each morning he performed his heroic five pushups on the bedroom floor. I kept calling the coffee yesterdays revenge.
On Sundays the kitchen filled with the aroma of stew and his warm stories.
By evening wed have our ridiculous spats:
Im still a marvel! Id declare.
Youre a marvel only to the neighbour pigeons, hed retort.
One day the kids burst in like a special forces team.
This is a scam! they shouted.
My only scam in life was your New Years coffee, he deadpanned.
When they asked what Id won, I looked at himalive, witty, unmistakably real.
I won a cosy family hearth, a man who laughs at sitcoms with me, and another who lights up when I walk through the door.
After their theatrical exit, he set the coffee down.
They think Im mad, he said.
Theyre right, I smiled.
And youre right too.
So were perfect for each other.
Half a year on: he still rises at the crack of dawn, I still mess up the coffee, and Sundays remain the tastiest day of the week.
Regret it? I asked.
Not a chance, he replied. Its the best absurdity of my life.
And you know what? Not a single day has felt like this marriage was anything but genuine.
