Last week the Mr and I celebrated having survived another year of marriage, quite remarkably, to each other. And what better way to mark yet another year of wonderful wedded bliss and matrimonial melodramas, than by having ourselves a very clean weekend away with one another. Plus two.
Happy anniversary Darling.
You see, my old fellow and I are not the most romantic duo you’ll ever meet. Romeo and Juliet we most certainly are not. Having booked this months in advance, as less of a pre-planned anniversary treat and more of a timely coincidence, the only thing on offer this weekend was an advance purchase rate and a couple of complimentary chocolate chip cookies. And with myself, the hormonal back-seat driver, and our very own double-trouble, squabbling, squawking, terrible twosome in tow, our celebratory cruise down the motorway was doomed from the outset.
Needless to say, it was Bank holiday Sunday and the hotel was fully occupied. Jammed crammed full with nostalgic newly weds, heady honeymooners and cosy couples spilling out of every stairwell, canoodling in every nook and cranny. Then there was us. Mum and Dad, children hanging off each limb, trailing spat-out biscuit crumbs and steering a second hand stroller, overladen with child-friendly inflatables and other pointless paraphernalia. Exasperated upon arrival and with barely a shred of sanity remaining visible in our faces, this delightful family of four commanded nothing but sympathetic stares, patronising pleasantries and condescending comments. Know how you feel mate. We left ours’ at home. Came for some peace and quiet. Family suite? Don’t forget to make use of the tea and coffee making facilities.
Happy anniversary Love.
You must be joking? What was supposed to be an amorous afternoon tea for two, became a chaotic, clotted-cream bun fight for four and our plans for spa-time snuggles in the sauna ran amok with slips, splashes and screams in the deep-end of the swimming pool. And this delightful day’s events culminated in an inevitably dramatic bedroom/bathroom stand-off. Forced to sit motionless in the dark and in absolute silence for what seemed like an age, WILLING the intoxication of sleep to prevail over our beautiful brood, Dad decided to open a packet of crisps. But this was no ordinary packet of crisps. This was a packet of incredibly crunchy and noticeably noisy Gd’dam crisps. I could have wept. What the hell are you doing? You’re going to wake the kids. [Crunch] Can you not hear yourself, you inconsiderate little shit! Piss off and eat them somewhere else. So off he pissed. Into the toilet. Crisps and all.
And as if that wasn’t enough to drive us both to commit double homicide, having un-banished him from the bathroom when it was entirely safe to do so, I had a headache. That’s right, Mum had one of her heads. Again. And there was to be no shifting it [with or without his pre-emptive stash of pain-killing relief]. Now under normal circumstances, it is moderately acceptable to have a headache after an onerous day in the office followed by the supper-time scramble. However, it is without question, absolutely unacceptable to have a headache on holiday. Let alone in the bedroom [of course?]. Some fun we’re having! You couldn’t have timed it better. How bloody convenient. May as well be at home. I’m going to the bar.
Good. Don’t slam the door on the way out.
And apparently this is all normal.
Which makes me feel somewhat relieved. For last week, the Mr and I celebrated having survived another year of marriage, quite astoundingly, to one another. But this was no ordinary year. Seven years of marriage – we must be doing something right? Seven years cojoined in holy matrimony and although the honeymoon period has been and swiftly gone, we’re still here to tell the tale. Seven years wed locked to each other and yes dear, whilst you would do less time for murder [yawn, yawn], the food inside is shit in comparison. Seven years together and I’m with you on the concept of window-shopping, I’m a woman! Cards on the table, dirty pants on the bedroom floor, seven years of getting to know each other and we now know all there is to know. Inside out, for better and for worse. Seven years later and all the annoying habits we’ve purposely overlooked, are now creeping up on us like an irritating skin rash. But honey, even though we’re seven years on and you’re beginning to itch like hell, I wouldn’t have you any other way. Crisps and all.
Happy Seven Year Itch.