A couple of vegetables

It’s Sunday morning at 11am and the Drudester is refusing to get his arse out of bed. He has insisted on lying around watching an enthralling programme about nerds and old people and their gardens. Ho hum.
The interviewees are (slowly) explaining the unparralelled delights of parsnips and rhubarb. I think. I can’t quite understand either because their accents are thicker than their coke-bottle glasses or because their dentures keep slipping out and getting tangled up in their words.
One old man was saying “I’ve been planting potatoes for 50 years. In 1967 I planted pink eyes, but then in 1972 I started planting green eyes. In 1985 I tried brown eyes, but the drought wiped them out. So in 1996 I planted yellow with purple spots eyes, but they didn’t grow so well ‘cos of the locust plague and the wrath of god”.
Uh huh. Really? Fascinating. Snore.
Another old dear was explaining how she uses her carrots. “I use them in stews mainly. Sometimes I boil them and sometimes I even steam them. And occasionally I use them as dildos”.
Ok, maybe I made that last bit up.
Finally, after many polite, eloquent and reasonable requests from me (which may, or may not have included me accusing the Drudester of being an old fart) the Drudester wounded me deeply by likened me to an old bag. He then gave me a charming view of his hairy white backside as he changed the TV channel. We are now watching a fascinating religious current affairs program (no, unfortunately I didn’t make that one up).
I’ve decided to leave the Drudester in bed watching old-people TV. I’m off to the kitchen to find the carrots …

Coming at it from another angle

The Drudester and I are trying to make a baby. I have figured out when we should be doing it, and have informed him of the dates. He approached me in the afternoon yesterday and asked me “would you like to try to make a baby now” in much the same way as he asks me “would you like a cup tea?”. I assented and we assembled in the bedroom where we efficiently disrobed. As his enjoyment is paramount in such circumstances I asked him “what position would you like?” in much the same way I ask him “would you like a biscuit with your tea?”. He pondered for a while and then arranged me to his liking. He fulfilled his obligations and received congratulations from me. I have sent him a Thank You card to express my appreciation for his contribution to the event. He has written back providing his available dates and times for the forthcoming week, should I require his services.
We've decided to rethink our approach to this. For some reason, the baby-making lark is not as much fun as we thought it would be ...

The Deed is Done!

The Audi pulls up to the church. The driver gets out and pulls the top of the car down. The photographer comes around to the passenger side. “Where is your fiancé?” he asks in confusion. “I dunno” I say, peering around the church yard from my position in the car. “He’s around here somewhere”. How the bloody hell should I know where he is, I arrived last. I am, after all, the bride.

And then the Drudester comes striding around the corner looking gorgeous in a grey suit and open-necked white shirt and sunnies. He takes my hand, tells me I look stunning and leads me towards the churchyard.

“I have good news and bad news babe” he says. “The bad news is that I showed the celebrant the beautiful ceremony that you spent ages writing and put your heart and soul into. And he can’t read English. So we can’t use it”. I’m disappointed but I suck it up. No point crying over spilt milk or illiterate Greek wedding celebrants.

“But the good news” says the Drudester excitedly, leading me past the church yard “is that I’ve moved everything up to the top of the mountain – we’re gonna have the ceremony up there!!!”.

Oh goody.

I point out to the Drudester that getting to the top of the mountain will be somewhat difficult, given that I am wearing a tight-fitting pencil dress made of shot silk. And that I am also wearing 6-inch stilettos. And that the photographer has a broken leg.

But the celebrant, the table, the cake, the flowers, everything and everyone is basically up on top of the mountain. So I have 2 choices – throw a massive tanty and demand that everything be brought down. Or climb.

It’s a tough call, but I opt for the latter.

So we schlep to the top of the mountain and meet the celebrant. He appears to have stepped of the set of a 70’s sitcom. He’s wearing a white suit and pointy white shoes and his hair has been especially greased for the occasion. He takes his documents from a briefcase that looks exactly like the one your dad used to take to work when you were 5.

He unites Unroo and Shway in holy matrimony in a ceremony neither of us understands, because it is in Greek and some strange language occasionally resembling English. It goes as follows:

“The marriage that joins you, obligates your chances to be the same and your life to be faced on equal base of the matters which will appear in your common life as husband and wife and generally in all difficulties in life”.

Eh?

The Drudester and I say “I do” at what we think are the appropriate moments.
And that’s it.
We’re married!!!!