I tied the knot with my 82yearold neighbour, and he still swears it was his finest bit of madness.
When I told my sister Clare, she nearly choked on her Victoria sponge.
Have you lost your marbles? she gasped.
No, Im fine. Hes not just eighty, hes a fullon eightytwo. Listen up.
His grownup kids drift in now and then a quick visit, a sigh, then off they go. This time they showed up with pamphlets for retirement villages, as if my husband didnt fit the pace of a seniorcitizen timetable.
Dad, its necessary, they urged.
Necessary? he retorted. Is life nothing but a set of instructions?
The very same day there was a knock at the door. Wine glass in hand, a twinkle in my eye.
Heres the plan: marry me and they wont ship you off to a care home. Youre young, Im stubborn. Isnt that a perfect formula?
And whats in it for me? I asked, halfskeptical.
Ill whip up a proper stew, spin yarns all evening, and never let you wallow in gloom.
Tempting, I thought.
The wedding itself was a delightfully absurd affair. I arrived without a single heel, and George sported a tie that looked like itd been rescued from a 1920s hat shop. Our witnesses were the lot from the corner shop down the road, more giggling than signing the register.
We became husband and wife, each inhabiting our own little universe, merely sharing a roof. Every morning George performed a heros routine on the carpet five pushups, no less. I kept calling my coffee yesterdays revenge.
Sundays smelled of his bubbling stew and his warm, rambling stories. By evening our banter turned into playful spats:
Im still the bees knees! Id brag.
And youre only the bees knees for the neighbourly pigeons, hed retort.
One day the kids stormed in like a specialops team.
This is a scam! they shouted.
My only scam in life was serving you coffee on New Years, George deadpanned.
When they asked what Id won, I looked at him alive, quickwitted, utterly genuine.
I won family warmth, a bloke to chuckle over sitcoms with, and someone who lights up when I walk through the door.
After their theatrical exit, George set the kettle.
People think Im off my rocker.
Theyre right, I smiled. Youre as mad as me.
And thats why were perfect for each other.
Six months on: he still rises at the crack of dawn, I still manage to ruin the coffee, and Sundays remain the tastiest day of the week.
Any regrets? I asked.
Not a one, he answered. Its been the best absurdity of my life.
And you know what? Not once did I feel this marriage was anything but real.
