I’m in a retrospective mood, so what could be better than an entry on how my wife and I got together? Pizza, you say? Well, okay – apart from pizza, then? Oh shut up!
It was a dark and stormy night. No really – it was. Very dark, because the storm had knocked out the lights and I was alone in a strange town. Anyone who has been to Port Elizabeth would know precisely how strange it is, but I digress. I decided to take a stroll down to the local tavern for some company.
I ended up in a conversation with gay fellow who tried to pick me up (in his defence, the interior of the bar was poorly lit by a few flickering candles and he didn’t have his spectacles with him at the time). When the awkward “I don’t think we’re playing for the same team” moment had passed, we got along famously and eventually became friends. Several months later, through an intricate chain of introductions (not entirely unlike the ‘Six Degrees of Separation from the Pope’ game), I was finally brought face-to-face with Miss Mrs-Kyknoord-To-Be.
I imagine her ruminations went something along the lines of, “Hmm. Seems a pleasant enough sort and doesn’t look too hideous if you squint a bit. Earning potential could be better, though. Still, he appears sufficiently pliant to bend to my will”
“Ooh. Want cookie”, thought I and before you could say “Aisle. Altar. Hymn”, we were married*.
* Actually, it was about a year and half later, but my gentlemanly nature prevents me from giving a blow-by-blow account of the intervening months.