This weekend, after a couple of drinks (ed: somewhere between eight and ten) I decided to share with the Boy my thoughts on where our relationship is going. We’d been swapping news of a pair of friends whose relationship is stretched to the limits over the question of marriage – she wants to get hitched, he thinks she should get knotted – and (I think) I (probably) just wanted to make sure that we weren’t going to end up in the same situation.
The finer nuances of the conversation are a little fuzzy but the gist remains both with me and, alas, with the Boy. We now know that:
1. I consider two to two to two-and-a-half years to be the optimum time for a marriage proposal. From him. To me.
2. Pizza Express is not an acceptable venue. I do at least know where this one came from – my most memorable proposal was from a deeply misguided young man who seemed to think that it would be a good idea if he went down on one knee in the Regent Street branch of Pizza Express. Over lunch. On a Tuesday.
3. One ring = two months’ salary. This was apparently a bit of a discussion point since the Boy is under the (mistaken) impression that one month is still acceptable. Maybe it’s just as well I brought it up when I did...
Apparently I’m also quite taken with the idea of running away to Las Vegas and being married by Elvis, though I think the Boy may be taking some artistic license with that one.
Although these details are all a little hazy, I do recall dancing merrily down the Canonbury Road with the Boy following patiently behind. (Please note: I cannot dance.) When we reached Essex Road station we stopped and I shared at some length my views on the world. “You know,” the Boy said, with a sigh, as he encouraged me across the road, one arm around my waist to stop me accidentally running out in front of a truck (as I sometimes do when overexcited), “It’s at times like these that I realise I love every weird, difficult, boozed-up bit of you. And I can’t help judging myself a bit for it.”
The romantic fool.
No comments:
Post a Comment