Wedded Bliss

We’ve had great romance in our house lately.  Last Thursday, the 18^th, His Nis and I had our tenth wedding anniversary.

It’s funny how many people have mentioned that they can’t believe it’s ten years already, it doesn’t seem that long ago. 
Maybe it’s because we were a pair for almost eleven years before we actually got married, but we’re just looking at each other, confused.  It feels to us like we’ve been married forever.

I don’t suppose that’s a good thing.

The anniversary itself was as per expectations.  His Nibs forgot it, and I waited until he was in the height of a moan before sighing dramatically and wishing him a Happy Anniversary in the saddest voice ever.

I made him bring me out for a nice lunch to make up for his foolishness.  It was a lovely hot day and His Nibs wanted to go into a dark corner for a roast beef sandwich.  I wanted to eat tapas in the sun.

I won, but the satisfaction was short lived.  His poor unprotected scalp started to burn almost as soon as we sat down.  And he spent half the lunchtime running around the corner to the shade for a little relief, and back to the table.  And even tapas in the sun on a Thursday can be ruined by a sweaty man obsessing over how pink the tips of his ears are.

Anyway, a few months ago His Nibs had gone on a few mysterious Sunday drives.

On his own, and at peculiar hours of the morning.  Usually, the dog would wake me some time between 8:30 and 9 on a Sunday morning, and I’d shout for His Nibs to take over care and custody of the hounds. There would be no reply, and after dealing with the dog’s demands, I would phone him on his mobile. 
He would only ever tell me what county he was in.  It was Roscommon once, Cork, and Galway.  And he would never tell me what his business in these seemingly random places might be.

I thought for a while that he might be having an affair with some sort of wandering woman. 

Eventually I realised that no woman in her right mind could put up with His Nibs on a Sunday morning.  By about 6 a.m. he’s already trying to start completely random conversations, about who might win a hurling match that day or some documentary he'd seen the night before.

It turns out he was planning an anniversary treat.  I was astounded when I heard.  I’d had no idea he even knew we were ten years married, never mind planning to do something about it, and four months in advance.

Anyway, this was the big weekend.  We had a great time.  We stayed in Ballinacourty House in the Glen of Aherlow, which I highly recommend.  His Nibs had turned up on their doorstep one Sunday morning in March, apparently looking for directions.  He was actually on a recce mission, looking for the perfect place for us to go.  The woman there was lovely, and he was attracted by the lovely 18^th century building complete with courtyard, and booked us in a few days later.  He couldn’t do it at the time, as to do so would blow his cover.  He loves a bit of espionage.

We went to Doolin on Sunday.  We had a whale of a time watching the poor mystified tourists being thrown off buses  at the tourist information centre, about two miles from the actual village, and being left to wander around aimlessly. 
We went to Lahinch, and the Burren, and other lovely places. 

On the Monday we went to one of my favourite places on earth, the Donkey Sanctuary in Cork.    His Nibs thought that since we were so close, it would save me a big drive later in the summer.  I had a great time talking to Lorcan, my foster donkey with the bendy ears.  His Nibs has no interest in or love for donkeys at all, but I think they’re great.  They’re my favourite animals actually, other than our Oscar and Marley.  I always get very excited when I see dozens of them on the hill as we approach the gate of the sanctuary.

His Nibs has only been there once before, he refused all further invitations on the basis that our marriage might not survive if he witnessed my being so annoying again. 

I only spent a few minutes there, a bit of a chat with some of my favourite donkeys, a quick stop in the gift shop to update my fostering, buy ever more donkey notebooks and keyrings, and we were off again.

I was delighted.  Usually, when I’ve made the long drive down, I sort of feel obliged to make it worth it, by wandering up hill and down dale and having to see every animal in the place.  Then I start reading the sad tales of donkey rescues, abuse, and what have you.  So I might be feeling a bit blue by the time I get back to the car.

Either that or I have to buy the placemats and umbrellas and foster more and more donkeys to make up for all the misery, and come home bankrupt.

All in all, the whole thing was great fun, and we somehow managed not to have a single row from the Saturday morning to the Monday afternoon, surely a record.

But all these things only last a limited time, and once that time is over everything goes back to normal, doesn’t it?

Last night he came in from watering the garden, and I heard him say in loving tones

“Are you all right there pet, would you like a drink or something?”

I was about to suggest I might be a divil and have a glass of wine despite its being Monday, when I realised he was talking to the dog.

And my attempt at domestic bliss was wrecked today when I hung out the washing, and within ten minutes the weather had finally broken, and the rain was bouncing off the windows.

I was like a divil over it.  I only took today off because I was so sure the sun would still be shining, and I’d get to spend the day in the garden, catching the last of the sun. 

At least we got our weekend away in before the rain returned.  I wonder whether that's it?  Is the summer over now?

And who knew?  Behind all our bickering and fighting over my reluctance to get up in the mornings, and giving out, and the great EastEnders v. War Documentaries debate, it turns out that His Nibs and I might be engaged in wedded bliss after all.

Which is good to know.