I met The Husband on the 29th July 2000, on the 29th June the following year we moved in to our first house together. A mere 11 months later we were mortgaged up to the hilt. I think the mortgage advisers face said it all when I was filling in all the necessary forms and she asked when my partners birthday was. I had to call him, he hadn’t had a birthday while I was with him. I was fairly sure he had birthdays I’d just never witnessed one is all.
To this day I’ve no idea why we work, we’ve very little in common other than the fact that I think he’s fabulous and so does he. We don’t have the same taste in anything, music, hobbies, décor, films, he doesn’t even like salmon for goodness sake, what’s that about? Apparently it’s too fishy? Yet we work. We work really rather well.
I like him because he’s one of a select few, other than family, that I’ve felt ok around. From the get go I could be me and knew he wouldn’t mind the me in me shining through. That’s not to say I’ve never embarrassed him, there was that time I held our neighbours mail to ransom.
I was their postie and while they were away I kept their mail at the post office so the house wouldn’t look like a burglars paradise. On their return I fashioned a ransom note.
If you want to see your mail you must meet me on the corner with biscuits.
They came with biscuits. The Husband was mortified.
I’d always felt I lacked something depending on the company I kept. That I wasn’t cool enough, clever enough or pretty enough. Nobody has ever suggested I was anything less than marvellous this feeling was all me, lack of confidence or something, low self esteem maybe? Who knows? Perhaps I just wasn’t cool, clever or pretty enough. But then I met The Husband and knew immediately that he was fine with my being a thick ugly nerd. I jest. I just knew he liked me, he thought/thinks I’m blooming great and he’s right, I so am, he’s lucky to have found me. I do not jest.
We lived in our first wee house for a couple of years, it was a lovely house but so so tiny. We started to look at others. One day we were viewing an empty abode, the agent had given us the keys and we went for a snoot. I wandered around feeling more and more as though I would pass out.
“What’s up?” he asked “Don’t you like it?”
I explained how serious I felt this step was. It was to be our second house. Our SECOND HOUSE. This shizzle was getting serious.
I can still see him sat on the stairs of the empty house that we didn’t buy.
“It’s just a house, you can still leave me whenever you like”
Phew! Panic over.
We’re now on our third house. We’ve been married for almost 11 years. We’ve two rather perfectly odd children and I’m as happy as a happy thing in Happyville. Can’t speak for The Husband, I’ve not asked him. It’s not that I’m not interested, I don’t need to ask because it’s glaringly obvious, he can’t hide it.
The Husband thinks I’m great.