Five years

Five years ago, one Friday, I had the day off, because I'd worked the Sunday before. I spent the day relaxing at home, and baking an amazing chocolate pudding for a dinner party I was going to the next day.

Just as I was washing up, I got a text message from a friend asking me if I was coming out to the pub. My original plans for that evening had fallen through, and the day before, she suggested I joined her and her colleagues for their after-work drinks.

I wasn't sure if I could be bothered, and texted back to ask if there was any talent.

She replied, "No, but there's good craic. You should come."

So I brushed my hair, changed into a top that didn't have chocolate down the front, slicked on a bit of eyeliner so I looked vaguely awake and spritzed some perfume, and jumped into a taxi across town, hoping for a bit of banter, a couple of drinks and a laugh.


It was a good crowd, and a good night. And as I was chatting to one of my friend's colleagues, I noticed that I rather disagreed with her about the talent. Over the other end of the group, I saw someone rather nice. Tall, dark and handsome. He saw me. One of his eyebrows shot up, and we both went back to our conversations.

I remember thinking, "He's cute. Shame, though, because he's talking to that bloke everybody says is a wanker. He probably is too."

But after a few moments, he came up to me and uttered the immortal opening line: "Are you Irish too?" (The friend was Irish, not the annoying type who thought it was cool to say "craic" five years ago.)

I laughed, said in my very English voice, "You obviously haven't heard me talk yet", and we got talking. Turned out he wasn't a wanker.

We talked for an hour or so, about nothing, about everything. At one stage he disappeared. I remember being surprised, thought he wouldn't have gone without saying goodbye. But when he turned up beside me five minutes later, I got a bit more confident. I later learnt that the five minutes had been spent hiding in the gents, plucking up courage to ask me out.

And when the friend and I decided to leave, he did ask me for my number. His hands were shaking slightly, so I offered to put it into his phone for him. I just managed not to dance out of the pub.

The next day he texted and asked me out. And the day after, we met for a coffee, and stayed out for five hours talking.

Three years later, we got married.

Two years on, I'm still pinching myself.

Census, roast chicken, and taking stock

Yesterday evening, while a chicken roasted in the oven, the husband and I sat down with glasses of alcoholic ginger beer (if you haven't tried it, do - it's wonderful) and pens to fill out the census.

We did it the old-fashioned way, with pen and paper, because I'd already spent the whole day at the computer doing chores, and he'd been at work. Anyway, it felt more of an occasion doing it on paper, and there was more continuity with the people who presumably did it in our flat when it was first built, ten censuses ago. Must go and find out more about them some day.

It didn't take long, as most things didn't take much thought - although we both put we understood Scots, there was some debate about whether we spoke it, which was settled when I realised anyone who heard me try would think I was taking the piss.

Two people. Living in a flat with five rooms. Married. One cat. Me working in PR, the husband "freelance", a rather elegant way of saying "doing what he can to get by, looking for a proper job." Getting by. Happy, especially when the sun shines.

It set me to thinking where I was during the last census. At uni in Oxford. Room in college, living with parents in holidays and doing work experience, desperate to get into journalism and take over the world. Single. Slightly spoilt. Thought worried about money was not being able to go shopping that week. Making friends and discovering life. Happy, although the lows at uni have been lower than any I've discovered since.

And what will the next census bring us? Two people. More, I hope. Maybe even four? (Crosses fingers, turns round three times and spits). An extra room or two would be handy if we are four. Married, barring the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Probably a cat. Probably a different one as Bacchus is ten. I suspect I'll still be doing something PR related, I hope the husband will be back in architecture. Getting by. Happy, I hope, especially when the sun shines.

We can't know what the future brings. There's something both hopeful and melancholy about looking forward. I'm off to cuddle the cat.

I'd love to know where you were ten years ago, and where you think you'll be next time you're filling in a census - please do leave thoughts in comments.

Omens

When The Husband and I first moved in together, many moons ago (well, three and a half years ago), my Aunt bought us a stephanotis as a house warming present. It had the prettiest white flowers and, as she gave it to us, she said it symbolised marital happiness.

Which meant that over the past few months, as it has been conveying its extreme displeasure and generally giving up on life, I've been a bit nervy.

This report has also been giving me cause for concern. Widely reported over the past few days, it states that the happiest couples are young, married and childless - all good so far - and have been together for less than five years. The Husband and I have been together for four years and eight months. Suddenly I've started hearing the Countdown clock in the background!

So when the stephanotis finally turned up its toes and died the other day, I decided to take action. I've binned it (or sent The Husband out to bin it - what that says about marital happiness is a whole different post) and replaced it with something with, as far as I'm aware, no symbolism attached.

In M&S I fell in love with this pretty plant in its vintage-style jug. I know if would have been far smarter of me to buy a vintage jug and a plant separately, but this wasn't planned shopping, it was M&S impulse buying while popping in for milk (um. Poppadums, actually. Oops). It's labelled a Campanula, with nothing on what type of variety it is. I can't find anything on the internet because there are so many different types - known as harebells in England and bluebells in Scotland apparently - and all have different lifespans.

But in many ways the lack of information is a good thing. I'll enjoy it while it lasts, and because I have no idea how long that's supposed to be, I won't feel guilty when it turns up its toes and dies. And at least I can reuse the jug.

Which is not a metaphor for marriage.

Nice Easter. Shame about the boat race.

I'm slowly relaxing into an extra long Easter break - ten days of it! The husband has lots of annual leave to use up and we're both exhausted from working too hard, so we've combined my birthday and Easter into one long spring staycation. And solemnly sworn not to fall into the DIY trap where we decide to fix one small thing and then a week later return to work exhausted, for a break, after completely redoing half the house.

So today, fully relaxed at last, we took a little trip up to the amazing chocolatier up the road to buy each other Easter eggs. I'm afraid my inner eight-year-old took over when she saw a bigger than usual Lindt bunny, and it was indulgently bought for me. The Husband opted for the same, and we bought a family group to bring down to his parents tomorrow as well as a few extras to have around in case of visitors. (Or maybe I'll have to eat them).

The Husband arranged them beautifully on a shelf to admire. But I have to admit I don't like the look on that rabbit's face. Who does he think is going to get eaten - him or me?

We also made hot cross buns to my mother-in-law's recipe, but had to improvise slightly as every scrap of mixed peel in Morningside had already been bought. I'm trying not to be too intimidated by living in a suburb where making one's own hot cross buns is evidently not going the extra mile but just the done thing. The results were yum, but unphotogenic and not quite right - I'll have to try again next year. However, the peel did look fantastic up against the green chopping board.

For the first time in our four-year (well, nearly, three boat races) relationship, I also persuaded my husband to watch the boat race with me. Watching it reminds me less of being at university then watching it on TV at my grandparents' house. Always, always shouting for Oxford, long before I even dreamt of applying. (Not long before the first "If you work hard you might end up here one day" tour, though).

Edinburgh is my home, and I love it and the friends I have here. But not one of them gives two hoots about the boat race, and a few are likely to go off on rants about class and the English at the very mention of it. The Husband is a Geordie, second-generation Bloody Good Redbrick University, and it had never occurred to him to care about it. All of this can make me feel slightly isolated, rather far away from home.

When I suggested watching the boat race I was met with slight indifference, until I suggested it rather harder and The Husband realised that it was one of those odd things that mattered to me - like having the option of going to church on Christmas day (he now suggests church on religious holidays with the polite and faintly mystified tones of an anthropologist indulging a strange tribe's quaint rituals). Then he was very sweet, and even suggested buying Pimms - something his North Eastern taste buds had never encountered until he met me.

He also got rather into it, obviously cheering for Oxford because yelling for the Tabs would be guaranteed to get him sent to the spare room for a few days.

So now, alongside the sweetness of Pimms, I've introduced The Husband to the bitter taste of defeat in the boat race. I'll make a Southerner of him yet.