|Look, I had hair, and the other-half had yet to drop a huge clanger|
A year ago today the other-half and I got married. At the risk of being a big softie and all un-cynical (don’t worry normal service will be resumed shortly) it was an absolutely fantastic day. It was warm and sunny, we were surrounded by friends and family, the venue was definitely my cup of tea (old, rackety and owned by, erm, eccentrics) and I spent many hours in a gentle beer/wine cloud of fluffiness.
|My ideal home. Of course, if it was mine, I wouldn't let oiks like me get married there.|
|The tree house - scene of near knicker trauma|
Which is just as well as, as in addition to the loveliness, I had to cope with trying to hold my skirt down (the ceremony took place in a tree-house like affair and the breeze was determined to reveal my big-flesh-coloured-suck-it-all-in-knickers to the world) and my husband calling me by the wrong name during his speech – that part was more Eastenders than Friends but memorable nonetheless. Apparently the first wedding anniversary is paper. £50 notes will be accepted.
A year on. I’m afraid the scales have dropped from eyes. I have to face the truth, no matter how hard I try not to. No, this isn’t about the other-half. It’s the growing realisation that my cat is a total arse. Sorry, there’s no other way to put it. Yesterday he went missing from the garden again I was in bed (recuperating from chemo side-effects) so I chucked some clothes on over my pyjamas and wobbled about the streets and the Very Busy Road calling him and rattling cat biscuits. I gave up after a bit and went back to bed only to find, a couple of hours later, that he hadn’t left the garden at all and had been deep in undergrowth ignoring me. Then at 4am this morning he went beserk charging about the place making as much noise as a fat three-legged cat can (which is a lot) until I got up and fed him. He is now, at 9am, fast asleep at the foot of the bed. Well, he’s had a tough night. And so have I.