Читать книгу William Walker’s First Year of Marriage: A Horror Story - Matt Rudd - Страница 39

Surprise, surprise, Isabel’s not sure about the Isle of Skye idea. She says she likes living in Finsbury Park. It’s colourful and multicultural and vibrant and alive. She likes our flat, she likes being near her friends. She’s hardly going to commute to work from Skye, is she?

‘Two months ago, you wanted us to move to a flat around the corner from your favourite bar in Quito. The Isle of Skye is a lot closer than Quito.’

‘Two months ago, I was stressed about the wedding. Now, I’m blissfully married and very happy here, thank you very much.’

But I play my trump card…

‘Think of the space, the trees, the nature, the organic farm we could start. With yaks and llamas and our own biltong shop.’

She really loves biltong, enough to hesitate for a split second.

But only a split second.

‘We can move to the outer reaches of civilisation when we’re in our thirties.’

When I suggest I am in my thirties, practically speaking, she says we’re married now and that it’s not ‘I’ but ‘we’, ‘I’ might be practically middle-aged, but ‘we’ are still almost two years off.

By the time I have had my morning coffee (I am allowed cow’s milk and sugar because I’m grumpy), I am recovered. I like living in Finsbury Park too. I like being near my friends. I like our first marital home.

Things continue to improve.

Although I was dreading today’s chore—getting the wedding ring I thought I’d managed to dodge—it couldn’t have been easier: turned up, put my finger through a spaghetti measure, gave the man with the monocle £300 and it was all done. Easy. Unlike the first ring I ever bought.