When BUB.1 was three months old, Willy Wonka took us to the Blue Mountains in Sydney and, after a perfect day of changing nappies on benches in bushland, a spa massage and a long soak in a jacuzzi with our baby, he proposed.
As the sun set over the Blue Mountains, he put on a special mix of songs he had chosen for me and when Israel Kamakawiwo’ole’s version of Somewhere over the Rainbow started he went down on one knee with a beautiful diamond ring and asked me to marry him.
He couldn’t have done it more perfectly. And as far as I’m concerned it was enough. I’ve never been one for weddings and have never envisaged myself having a big wedding. It’s lovely for some, but I just couldn’t ever see myself in that role.
We’ve now been engaged for almost five years and since then we’ve moved back from Australia to the UK, moved house twice, and had two more babies. There’s barely been time to cut our toenails, let alone organise a shindig. So we haven’t. Every six months we spend an hour or so talking about it, what we might do, and the conversation ends with us promising to fire off some emails when we get a mo.
And then life goes on.
But perhaps a bi-annual affirmation that you still want to be together, even if it is in your pyjamas, is just as romantic as a public declaration? Maybe even where this sort of talk belongs.
As I heard Graham Norton say the other day, wedding vows always sound a bit too much like ‘pillow talk” for comfort. But like him, I wouldn’t ever say no to a knees up with lots of wine, so never say never.