This August, my wife and I will have been together for fifteen years. After that, the old phrase “I’d have got less than that if I’d have killed you” will actually be true.
As someone who spent his formative years despairing of ever having a girlfriend, the idea of spending this long with one person seemed totally unthinkable to me. It’s being without her that now seems unthinkable.
We’re not annoyingly happy and lovey-dovey all the time like your smug newlyweds, but we understand each other and accept each other’s foibles. To a point, anyway. If I don’t start rinsing my cereal bowls out of a morning, I know I’m in for a severe bollocking. Probably fair enough when she’s told me at least a dozen times, if not quite the thousand occasions she claims.
Anyway, I’m incredibly grateful that she’s somehow managed to put up with my shit for this long. I don’t think I’m a bad husband or anything, but I’m sure I’d have got fed up of me by this stage. She’s more tolerant than I sometimes give her credit for. And I’m not just saying this because Yakuza 3 is arriving tomorrow.
So this one’s for you, Mel. I love you.