romance

The most romantic thing you can do: Be kind

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20160910_133428As I unpacked the box of Imodium from my weekend bag I thought – Well, that wasn’t supposed to happen.

I organised every element of our third wedding anniversary getaway. I chose the destination – Whitstable and then Margate – I found the hotels, I booked the restaurants, I packed a dress that was going to require ironing before I wore it – the very definition of ‘putting the effort in’ – and put everything in place for the perfect mini-break.

But there are some things that you just can’t plan for, and food poisoning is one of them. Yes, on Thursday afternoon, the bloated feeling I hoped was just down to excessive cheese consumption turned into more quality time with our hotel bathroom than I would wish on anyone. To say this food didn’t agree with me would be an understatement. This was the Brexit to my Remain – it wanted to leave and it wanted to leave right NOW. And as much as I can try and joke about it, I was gutted. I’d been looking forward to this trip for weeks and to lose a third of it to sickness was just very annoying.

When you’ve been together a long time, you start to feel like you need to book in time to be romantic. You schedule hours, days and weekends during which to be your best selves – to watch sunsets, to sip cocktails, to eat dinner without the telly on. To pay the other person your fullest attention and remind them that you really do love them more than your phone/X-Box/cat.

But as wonderful as that kind of organisation can be – and it really can – things don’t always go to plan. And what matters is how you deal with that.

Leon has a lot of experience in this area as I have been accidentally unwell on numerous profoundly inconvenient occasions. It happened on our honeymoon when a dodgy plate of rice caused me to get as close as a human being can to exploding, it happened last year in Malta when I stupidly forgot to drink water in 34 degree heat and discovered just how well a body responds to that (not well, not well at all), and it happened right here in our house when the first oyster I ever consumed ensured that it would also be my last.

Charlotte and Leon Buxton wedding dayHis response is always the same – concern, a couple of gentle reminders that freaking out will only worsen my predicament, and then relentless (slightly irritating at the time, totally wise and sensible in retrospect) instructions to drink copious amounts of water to ensure my continued survival. He then amuses himself doing whatever he likes until I improve. He doesn’t get cross that I ruined the holiday or start asking me for an approximate time at which I’ll be ready to hit the gin again, he just offers quiet reassurance that I’ll be back on the Pringles before I know it and that he’ll be there to peel off the lid. And for that I will always be grateful.

Romance doesn’t always look how you think it will. They don’t tell you when you take your vows that at some point in your life the words “I bought the rehydration sachets you asked for” will be the most romantic sentence you’ve ever heard, but it will, believe me, particularly if your stomach is as weak as mine.

Being romantic isn’t all about buying candlelit dinners and cocktails, although I do recommend a health dose of both. It’s the little acts of kindness that show you care – the text to say ‘Good luck’ before a tricky day, the reassuring hand squeeze across a train carriage table that promises everything will be fine, or the early morning walk into town to buy raspberry flavoured salt replacement solutions that will gradually bring your patient back to life. They may not make it into the photo album, but these are the moments you’ll remember.

This anniversary may not have quite gone to plan but we certainly won’t be forgetting it in a hurry. Not only did it teach us to always choose a hotel that’s near a Boots, but it also reminded us that if we’re kind to each other, we can handle anything. And that’s something I’m up for celebrating every year.

It’s a shame that we missed out on the dinner I had planned and that we didn’t get to see another sunset together, but I can only hope there will be plenty more to come.

And on the plus side, I never did have to iron that dress. Every cloud has a silver lining, you know.

What it’s like to… go on your honeymoon

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IMG_5085What DO people do on their honeymoon? Do newly-weds really all look the same? In desperate pursuit of a new blog post format, I have conducted an interview with myself to find out the answers to all the big honeymoon questions. My effort at least should be appreciated.

Charlotte, good to see you, and may I say, what excellent hair. 
Why thank you, it’s just dry shampoo and two whacks of the hairbrush.
Well, it’s working for you. So, where did you go for the big H. M?
What?
Your honeymoon.
Oh, right. You do know it’s just one word don’t you?
Yeah, course…
Cool…. We went to Bali, Gili Trawangan and Lombok which are all in Indonesia.
Lovely. And were you surrounded by other people on their honeymoon, and forced to feel like getting married was the most generic, predictable thing you could have done?
There were a few around but lots of other people too. Newly-weds are easy to spot – they have very shiny wedding rings that have not yet been tarnished by normal things like cooking or toilet duck; she tends to have freshly manicured nails; and they both look exhausted. That ain’t jet-lag, that’s wed-lag.
I see what you did there, and I like it. So did you give the new surname a test drive whilst you were there?
Oh yes, and it was the perfect opportunity to try out my new signature too – every bicycle hired and fruity mocktail had to be signed for. I think I’ve nailed it now if you want to see?
Oh, that won’t be necessary; I’ve seen a signature before. And what sort of things did you do there?  
Well, aside from the usual sunbathing and whatnot we went to a bird park, saw reptiles, swam in a waterfall, visited a monkey forest, had a surfing lesson… [Charlotte interrupts]
HA! Sorry, I’m just imagining you on a surf board. Hahaha! 
Look, I can prove it *shows above photograph*. I even managed to stand up on the board, I’ll thank you.
No, thank YOU. So have you got any other, sorry, any funny stories from your trip?
Well, not so much funny but I did get a dose of food poisoning, or ‘Bali Belly’ as the guide book calls it, which saw all my bridal serenity go right down the toilet.
Ooh another pun, we are on fire today. That sounds nasty, did you lose much time?
Just a day, thankfully. On the plus side, I got to hear my husband refer to me as his wife a lot. He kept ringing reception to say things like: “My wife’s unwell, please can we have more water?” or “My wife would like a biscuit,” or “Please can I order a pizza? No, it’s for me, I think my wife’s asleep.”
Every cloud, eh. And did you stay in nice places and have the full five star experience?
Oh yes, when in Rome!
Sorry, I thought you said you went to Bali?
We did… Yes, we stayed in lovely places. In one hotel, they’d come into our room when we were out having dinner and leave surprises, like a honeymoon cake or a bath towel rolled into the shape of a duck.
A duck? Wow, that is impressive. A quacking idea, you might say.
No I wouldn’t, I like my puns a little more subtle.
Whatever… So tell me, did you find it hard to leave or were you ready to come home?
Oh no, I really didn’t want to come back – why would I? There’s no way our normal lives could be as good as the honeymoon. It’s all downhill from here.
Well that’s a lovely note to end on. Thank you Charlotte, and good luck with the marriage!
Cheers Charlotte, and to you with the writing gig. Someone should definitely give you a book deal.

You shall not pass! Why the toilet door stays closed

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You shall not passThere isn’t much we haven’t seen each other do.

He’s seen me fall face first into a dinghy.

I’ve seen him take the world’s longest tumble over a suitcase.

He’s seen me choke on blackcurrant squash ’til it came out my nose.

I’ve seen him drink so much whiskey he couldn’t find our bedroom.

He’s seen me learn the hard way that one must put sun cream on all four of one’s cheeks.

I’ve seen him find out that “Wash at 30 degrees” labels are not to be ignored.

There isn’t much we haven’t been witness to in the last eight years. That’s what being in a relationship means – signing up to be the one that gets to see (and laugh at) every single act.

Except one.

Going to the toilet, using the ladies, popping to the little boys’ room, relieving oneself of all that cordial… whatever you want to call it, we do it alone.

In this house, the bathroom door must be respected. Sure, he can wander in and grab his toothbrush when I’m washing my face, and I can interrupt his morning shower to remind him to please put the bin out, but if there’s anything else happening, we steer well clear.

But why be so prudish about something as basic as a little excretion? CHILL OUT GUYS, everybody wees, you might say.

Well yes they do, but that doesn’t mean it requires an audience. If a man uses the loo and there’s nobody there to hear it, does the flush still make a sound? I’m happy to take his word for it.

After this many years together it can be hard to maintain any illusion. We’re not the people we said we were on Date One and we’ve had to come to terms with that; he doesn’t really like Coldplay, he just said that to reel me in, and I don’t like football, I just meant that I would watch David Beckham games. He knows now that women’s legs aren’t permanently smooth (or smooth at all between October and March) and I realise that living with a man who goes to the gym has its sweaty, pungent downsides. But – if nothing else – at least we have spared each other the sight of what we look like when we empty our bodies of waste.

There’s not much privacy in a long term relationship – Why are you shaving like that? Are you sure your phone is charged? What are you doing sitting down when the bin is still overflowing? – so bathroom time is pretty much all we’ve got left.

Like so many things, I guess you just have to find what works for you, whether it’s an open door policy or the threat of divorce if you’re ever caught with your trousers down.

Either way, I recommend making sure you agree on this one. Otherwise, if you need the toilet as frequently as I do, you’ll find that you’re arguing about every 20 minutes.

And that’s just unhealthy.

Valentine’s Day – The least romantic day of the year

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173There’s no escaping it. Valentine’s Day is coming up; as welcome on the calendar as a dentist appointment or winter gas bill.

The worst thing about Valentine’s Day – if I must pick just one – is the notion that we must all be romantic at the same time. No spontaneity, no original thought, just robotically churning out roses and inhaling Milk Tray for 24 straight hours.

I’m not in a position to define what true love is – although I’d say that the way I feel about LUSH bath bombs comes pretty close – but I do know that it’s not generally a communal event. Well, unless you like that kind of thing…

If posters, adverts and card shop windows are to be believed then each of us must buy a fluffy red devil toy and an oversized card featuring a Care Bear with a picture of our face in its stomach, sit two by two in restaurants, quaff Cava from flashing red beakers and guffaw at how profoundly romantic we are. Battery farm dating at £40 a head.

And then the next day we can compare stories with friends about how amazing our evening was and compete to see who had the most romantically romantic time; secure in the knowledge that it was definitely us.

Or if – heaven forbid – we don’t have a Valentine to call our own – we can just sit at home alone, necking vodka, watching Bridget Jones and using our oversized pants to mop up our tears. As if our status on this day matters one iota.

PLEASE.

If you can find me someone who experiences genuine pleasure when given a stuffed dog with ‘I wuv you’ written on its collar then fine. Good for them. But I reckon that in most cases what they really enjoy is telling people about it:

“My boyfriend is more romantic than your boyfriend because he bought me an item so flammable we can no longer use the hobs!”

Congratulations, take a bow.

When I was at school, Valentine’s Day was just another reminder of how unappealing I was to the opposite sex. As if just being alive wasn’t enough. I remember subtly checking my drawer – clearly marked ‘Charlotte Reeve – Enquire Within’ should any secret admirers need directions – to see if anyone had popped a little card or limerick in there for me.

No dice.

So, to hide my disappointment, I’d just take out my French book and start conjugating the shit out of some verbs. One day my subjunctive would be the talk of the town.

And then when I did finally find a boyfriend, I discovered that all Valentine’s Day brought was an annual language barrier between us. Me shouting like an Englishman abroad:

“IT’S VALENTINE’S DAY. WE MUST CELEBRATE. BUY ME ROSES!”

And him – though it pains me to say – talking sense:

“This day has nothing to do with us. We already have five anniversaries a year. Eating amongst hundreds of other couples will be awful. Let’s just stay in and have some crisps like we normally do.”

Valentine’s Day is really only as important as you make it. Go the whole hog and order a barbershop quartet, or ignore it altogether and just get a pie and peas on like any other day. As long as you’re doing what you genuinely want, it doesn’t really matter.

As for us… we’ll probably just drink until the clock says we’ve made it to 15th February.

Now there’s a day worth celebrating.

How to be proposed to

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391There’s plenty of advice available about how to propose. Where to go, what to buy, what to say; it’s all there. But there is very little on how to prepare for being asked The Big Question.

It’s now exactly one year since my other half proposed to me. And besides attempting to plan a wedding, tame my hair, and work out my new signature, I have spent the last 12 months laughing at how ill-prepared I was.

And so, I have come up with some tips for future proposees. Follow my advice and you will answer TBQ with grace and poise. Much better than just shaking and sweating, as I did.

How to spot a proposal coming

1. Location location location
Proposal rules state that there are three places one should propose. If you find yourself in any of the following spots, prepare to raise the alarm:

a) Somewhere romantic – if you are in Paris, Rome, any other non-war zone capital city, on a beach, on an attractive bridge, near a pretty looking tree… you are at risk. If he kneels down at any point, consider it a code red situation.
b) Somewhere really unromantic – in the spirit of surprise, proposors may decide to catch you off-guard by popping the question somewhere unexpected. If you’re near a bin or in a pound shop, be on your guard.
c) In a jewellers – some men like to guarantee a yes by incorporating shopping into the proposal. Cunning. If you find your man’s pace slowing near a ring shop, he may be about to make a considerable purchase. WARNING – he may just be dawdling. Be sure of his intentions before shouting ‘yes’ to avoid embarrassment.

2. Check your belongings
In preparation for buying a diamond, a man may steal one of your rings to establish your size. Keep an eye on your jewellery box and if an item disappears, a proposal may be afoot. Otherwise you may have a criminal on your hands, so contact the police immediately.

3. Is he looking shifty?
If you find the gentleman in question acting suspiciously, going through alternative security to you at airports, and/or nervously checking their pockets at regular intervals, he may have a marriage plan up his sleeve. Alternatively, he may also be a criminal, in which case contact the police immediately.

If any or all of the above occurs, you could be just moments away from being proposed to. STAY CALM.

And though you have considered this moment for some time, you do not yet know how you are going to react. So here’s some tips on how to respond appropriately and avoid having the offer retracted on the spot:

What to do if he does propose

1. Remember to answer the question
Such was my surprise at being asked the world’s greatest question (aside from ‘Would you like cheese with that?’) that I forgot to provide an answer. Instead I cried, asked if I was awake, and my temperature shot up to 100 degrees. So, if the answer is yes, do remember to say it. If nothing else, staying in that position will do nothing for his knees.

2. Remember to look at the ring
Whilst you may have professed that the ring ‘BETTER be big’ when messing about with your chums, if you are planning to marry for love instead of possessions, you may be so taken aback that you forget to look at the ring at all. He will have spent considerable time and cash on the item, so it’s only right that you should have a look. Also, note that you may find that wearing a ring on your wedding finger feels strange. But I suggest you avoid saying “I feel like I’ve been branded!” to your other half, as it’s not really in keeping with the romantic vibe he’ll be going for. Believe me.

3. Keep away from your phone
The best thing about a proposal is that it is a moment shared by just the two of you. And whilst the world will have to know at some point, I recommend having at least one evening without any telephone/social media use. It’s only polite to concentrate on the face you’re going to spend the rest of your life with, rather than how many people ‘like’ your incorporation of a Beyoncé lyric into your Facebook status. (You can do this to your heart’s content when you get home, as I did).

So there you have it; consider yourself prepared.

If only I’d known then what I know now, I’d have coped with the proposal like a pro, and with more elegance and style than a ballet dancing swan.

Never mind. I’ll do better next time.

You should be dancing, yeah!

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IMG_2846As I looked around the dance floor on New Year’s Eve I considered how much our approach to dancing changes over time.

I remember with a face full of cringe being eight years old, arriving at a lower school disco and not quite knowing where to put myself. So what, you just go from normal walking to dancing without any build up? I couldn’t handle that. So instead, I did a quick skipping circuit of the school hall before finding my friends and joining in with the Agadoo. I think that was the first time I realised I was cool.

Then came the teenage years and the curious phenomenon of ‘the slow dance’. The holy grail of the dance floor where a boy is prepared to hug you and slowly turn around in a circle at the same time. Oh, to be one of those girls and not just standing on the side making “Woooo!” noises at them to disguise my intense loneliness. Yeah, being a teenager was ACE.

There were basically three routes to survival: do the Saturday Night dance routine to everything and pretend you’re being ironic, tap your feet from side to side in the hope that it will send you back to Kansas (or your actual home), or sit it out altogether, drink squash, eat crisps and convince yourself it’ll all be easier when you’re older.

Oh, but it won’t.

Because by then everybody knows what SEX is and that makes everything much more complicated.

It didn’t occur to me until I got to university that dancing and sex were in any way related. How could me spinning a pretend lasso around my head during 5,6,7,8 by Steps ever make anybody want to do THAT with me?

But then the first time I ventured into a club in Sheffield, I realised. Nobody in there was doing that routine (except me). No, most people had a very different thing on their mind and I didn’t know any of the moves.

I definitely hadn’t heard the word ‘gyrate’ before. For anybody who is unfamiliar, Urban Dictionary defines it as: shaking hips/body provocatively to attract attention (male or female).

Well, ‘When in Rome’, I thought. I gave it a go but suffice it to say any attention I attracted was not for the intended reasons. My fellow party people were just on guard in case they needed to call an emergency chiropractor at any moment. I didn’t do that again.

But then the university days pass and you become a real adult. Dancing is now only really done at weddings, work parties, in bars kind enough to throw on a bit of album track Take That, or when you’re cooking and you don’t think anyone is watching.

So when we do get to dance, we’ve got to make it worth our while. We can’t be worried about how we look to other people, or whether we’re going to pull a muscle. We need to climb on that Gangnam Style horse and not get off until our boyfriend, chum or Dad tells us it’s time to go home.

So when New Year’s Eve came around I grabbed the opportunity to throw some shapes with both hands. My legs ached for three days afterwards but it was worth it. I may even have worked off one of the three Christmas dinners I had.

As to what the next stage of dancing is, I don’t know. Dancing with kids? Maybe. Dancing with dogs? More likely. Or perhaps just dancing down the supermarket aisles when they play an instrumental version of Bohemian Rhapsody. I’ve already been doing that for years.

But until then, I’ll stick to the kitchen and the odd wedding reception dance floor. As long as they don’t mind me doing a quick skip-circuit first. I don’t want to look like an idiot now, do I.

A little less conversation

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IMG_6415The longer you are in a relationship, the lower your quality of chat dips.

At the start you project the most interesting version of yourself. It’s all “I want to be a journalist” “Those Arctic Monkeys are the SHIT, aren’t they?” and “Sorry if I seem tired, it’s because I’ve been partying since, like, FOREVER.”

But then, just a couple of years in, you find yourself choosing “Guess what, I saw a squirrel on my way to work” as the first thing you say to him when he gets home in the evening.

And this happens – besides being due to the inevitable fascination one gains with wildlife at the age of 23/24 – because we spend so much time together that we forget to separate what should just be thought to ourselves and what should be said out loud – for example:

“My mum was right, you really do get what you pay for when it comes to bin bags.”

“These pants may be big but my GOD are they comfortable.”

“A man on the tube yawned into my hair this evening. It made me want to be sick.”

But whilst women – and by women I mean a minimum of ‘I’ – do this, the same cannot be said for men – and by men I mean ‘him’ and possibly others. Sure, this isn’t scientific but entering into serious relationships with a control group of other men over a seven or eight year period to check if I’m right would infringe somewhat on my current plans so let’s just go with it.

No, men do not feel the need to speak for speaking’s sake. I have to ask what he’s thinking and the answer is never “I was just wondering what the difference between an otter and a beaver is” or “That woman over there’s lips are too thin”. It’s always either “Nothing”, or “I was just thinking about having some cheese”. He just seems to enjoy silence a lot more than I do, and now I think I can see why.

I blame real life for my demise. We have too much else to cover beyond our thoughts on the latest Bloc Party album (they’re still around, right?) or where’s cool to consume a mojito. Now I need to know whether he remembered to take a yogurt with him to work and if he thinks the new toilet paper I bought is of a good enough quality. So my thoughts on the surprising strength of Tesco value foil are just par for the course.

And just as the mundane makes itself at home, that filter for words that prove we’re less fun and outgoing than our courting personas suggested clocks off. The façade comes down, we admit that we actually think fancy dress is tiresome and boring, that we don’t like new year’s eve because it means definitely being out beyond midnight and that, if we’re honest, we think Trick or Treat-ing should be illegal as it just frightens the elderly (and a select group of 27 year olds).

So what does this mean? Does it mean I’ve got too comfortable, that I’m breaking all the glossy magazine rules on how to keep your man happy? Or is this just what it’s like to be with someone for a long time and truly be yourself with them?

I don’t know. All I know is that if I keep a steady store of cheese in the house, I can say what I like.

Date night: When two become fun

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IMG_2486I was very cynical when I first heard about the concept of ‘Date Night’. (Defined using a mish-mash of google searches as: An evening out designed to strengthen a couple’s romantic bond)

“Well you might need to schedule specific time to be nice to each other but we at Ivory Towers are both sweet and romantic to each other every waking second of the day. Shame about you though!” *smug face*

But then we got jobs, and responsibilities and had to start prioritising things – heaven forbid – besides which cafe we were going to sit and hold hands in, and so fun had to start being scheduled. And by that I mean real fun and not my idea of excitement which is discussing in which order items should be loaded into the dishwasher.

The problem comes when you try to find a gap in the already packed schedule of domesticity…

There’s work time, food shopping time, put the bin out and put another bag in time, find out if he’s ever going to leave the office and come home for dinner time, stare into the cupboards and hope a meal magically appears on your plate time, fall asleep on the sofa and wake up at 2am confused and alone time, and, if you’re lucky, perhaps even ‘So how was your day?’ time. If you’re not careful, discussing what should be included in the Tesco delivery may be the most fun you have all week.

My dating record is rather short. I have had two official first dates in my life: Gentleman 1 felt that was enough to confirm that I was a maniac whereas Gentleman 2 didn’t realise that ’til he’d already signed the mortgage papers.

But just because we’ve decided to commit that doesn’t mean the dating game is over, we just know who we’ll be playing it with for the rest of our lives. Some would say that takes all the fun out of it, but those people were clearly never as bad at the game as me.

And we need it too. Mainly because the attire my beloved sees me in most frequently is my house clothes – i.e the top half of whatever I’ve been wearing at work paired whichever pair of jeans are lying around in the bedroom (Yes Cosmo, I am available for your ‘How to bag a man and keep him!’ feature) so it’s important that we seek out opportunities to dress up and give my slippers a night off.

And so enter date night. I never actually say the words aloud as my fellow datee shudders in the face of any such relationship jargon. Whilst he loves sitting on the sofa and watching a film, uttering ‘cosy night in’ would see our cinema snacks covered in vomit.

So, call it what you like, every now and then we leave the house together, have a drink or two and maybe something to eat and remember what supercoolfuntrendy people we really are – followed by an out-of-house reminder that once 10pm hits, I’m at risk of falling asleep no matter where I am.

What matters most, of course, is enjoying yourselves wherever you are. Whether it’s propping up the bar in some swanky hotel, or doing so much clothes washing you high-five at the site of the bottom of the linen basket.

But I do think it’s healthy to schedule the odd night on the tiles every now and then, just to get you out of the house. No matter how hard I try to sell it, taking the bin out together is never going to pass as a romantic activity.

Welcome home – anything to declare?

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IMG_1897It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a passport must be in want of a wife.

Or at least this is what the last few years have led me to believe anyway.

(Apologies to the late great Jane Austen for messing with such a beautiful opening line but I saw the opportunity for Pride and Prejudice inspired wit and I took it.)

It is common practice these days for those of us of marriage-ready, party-wanting age – upon hearing that a couple who have been together a long period are off on holiday – to sit waiting for a social media update to confirm that they got engaged on the trip. Don’t pretend you haven’t done it because I’ve seen you.

Worse than that, it is equally and shamefully common to have asked said couple outright before their departure if a proposal is on the cards. If you want to see a man’s eyes dart from side to side at the speed of light, this is the way to do it.

And if you think it’s edge-of-your-seat excitement for you, then imagine what it’s like to be the woman in this travelling duo, attempting to behave like a normal human being when it’s all you can do not to rifle through your other half’s bags in search of evidence that you may be about to hit the big time.

And whilst it all adds to the excitement of a trip away before anybody asks anybody to marry them, once the big question has been popped, it does rather take the edge off future holidays. He can’t exactly ask again, can he?

“We should go to Bruges for a long weekend before Christmas” He said to me the other morning.

All of a sudden that old Romance Detector in my head went off DING DING DING Here we go girls, this could be the big one!!! …until I remembered that the deed has already been done; question asked and answered. “So I guess we’ll just spend some time together there then,” I thought “Cool…”

With the cat out of the bag and the ring on the finger, what exactly is there to speculate about on this trip? How much chocolate we eat? Whether everyone arrives and returns safely? Oh please, that’s not even worthy of a status update. What is the point of even going?!

Now as horrible and ungrateful (and exaggerated for effect) as this sounds – it is, I believe, an important stage of marriage preparation to realise that, in reality, being together is approximately 1% diamond rings and champagne flutes and 99% just TIME – lots and lots of time spent together, mostly at home and sometimes abroad. And that, in itself, is actually very exciting indeed if perhaps not Breaking News.

And anyway, most people go on holiday to get away from exactly this kind of madness – from the big news and the drama to just have a much needed rest without making any life changing, extremely expensive, gut wrenchingly emotional decisions.

So now when my friends go away with their beloveds I resist the temptation to ask if wedding bells will be a-ringing on their return – both in the interests of their sanity and every future trip they might take together.

I’m sure the internet will let me know if anything of note occurs whilst they’re gone anyway.

Don’t be fooled by the rock that I’ve got, I’m still, I’m still cleaning the worktops

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20141227_110725No matter how big the diamond he’s given you, when the man forgets for the 188th time to take the washing out of the machine before enough time has passed for it to walk out itself, you cannot help but wonder what exactly you have signed up for.

The battle for mutual domestic understanding has been fought ever since we went over the top and moved in together almost four years ago. When they say that you don’t know a person until you live with them, they are not really giving you the full story. What they should say is – you really don’t know YOURSELF and how unreasonable YOU ARE until you live with someone you expect to love you above all others. This is what I have learned.

I have often been mocked for the amount of sighing I do. I sighed during school exams because they were silent and boring, I sigh during films and TV if a protagonist dares to say or do anything I don’t find 100 per cent entertaining, and, as I now know, I sigh when domestic duties are not tended to within the exact timeframe I’d have liked i.e. as soon as I have noticed they need doing.

I live in a vicious circle of unachievable aspirations for a spotless abode, incessant love for generating piles of unnecessary but sentimental crap, and irritation at the sight of mess. I am completely impossible to satisfy.

The about-the-house habits of our other halves are a favourite discussion point amongst my female friends. Having a collection of worn socks at the end of the bed is not uncommon, I’ve learnt, and nor is blindness to an overflowing washing basket. Our priorities are just different.

But that is not to say that this is just a girl-boy battle where we women are the clean and shiny victims whilst the men wish to be left alone in squalor. It definitely feels like that sometimes in this house but let’s not start a row.

No, it seems that what we have is a world where – unsurprisingly – it is very unlikely that two people are going to want to live in exactly the same way. We may love the bones of each other, but our views on what qualifies as a reasonable period of time for a used cereal bowl to be left on the coffee table are wildly different.

When we got engaged earlier this year I spent the rest of the weekend dancing around on a cloud of joy, delighted at the lifetime of happiness before us. And I am still delighted, of course I am. But I must admit that after such a romantic gesture as having someone offer their entire life and worldly goods to you (including half the beloved X-Box), it came as something of a shock to find myself sighing about a badly filled dishwasher just a fortnight later.

In truth, whilst the ring protects me from other potential suitors – sent crying back to their homes when the news that I was betrothed was announced – and the fateful ‘so when are YOU getting married?’ question at dinner parties – it turns out that it is not a magical real-life sorting device. Those hobs won’t clean themselves, you know.

But if the ring can’t do it, then at least we have our dear friend Tolerance. A fickle friend in my experience that disappears at the first sign of trouble when I wake up after a nap on the sofa at 11.30pm and notice our dirty dinner plates are still on the table – but a friend nonetheless.

And without it we wouldn’t have much. I certainly wouldn’t have a man who’s willing to commit his life to a woman who goes ape-shit at the first sign of a drink daring to stand without a coaster. Wow, even writing it makes me mad. Let’s just agree to disagree on that one.

And they lived happily ever after.