The first time

The first time I met Max I had to pay for my own drink. Fair enough, it was a training day in the office (on a lunch break), and not a date, but it was obvious we were getting to know each other. The first time we did go on a date, it was no different. The barman kept ignoring him, apparently.

The first time he took me to Paris, he picked our "hotel" from the Lonely Planet. Ok, it was a few years back but (I'm not kidding you) it cost £15 a night. I still remember the wee-stained candlewick bedspread, the suspect clientele and the rottweiler behind the reception desk. The receptionist wasn't much more welcoming either. And don't even get me started on the toilet-in-the-room arrangement.

The first time I clapped my eyes on my engagement ring, I turned into that rottweiler. In my head, that is. Outwardly I remained calm and collected and accepted graciously. Six months of gentle prodding later I got what I wanted, making Max £3,000 poorer in the process. No mean feat considering the original offering was closer to £500.

Why did I marry him? Because he would always come and rescue me from the jungle (cheaper than sending in the troops...). And because he'd give me his last kidney, if need be. He'd probably try and sew it in personally, too.... You guessed it, it'd be cheaper this way...

But, above all, I married him because he makes me laugh. Good, old-fashioned belly-laughs, every time he opens his mouth and says: "How much?!"