Pearl

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I know – it’s a surprising name, isn’t it? There’s really no accounting for the whims of parents.

Sorry – I’ll come in again.

This is the love of my life and father of my children, my friend and confidant, and the person whose brain partners with mine to make one reasonably effective thinking machine. The man formerly known to this blog as Current Husband, and now as R. Today we’ve been married for 30 years, which the Interwebs tell me makes it our pearl wedding anniversary. I didn’t buy him pearls, though I probably should have.

Sadly, it seems that Pearl R thinks my new macro lens is just a little too sharp for taking flattering portraits: when he saw this photo, he was not impressed.

“OMG,” he said, “look at that wrinkly old bloke! I’m glad I don’t look like him.”

We then had a competition over which of us has the worst wrinkles, which we both lost.

“Couldn’t you have focused on the Aperol?” he asked. “I did have a photo like that,” I replied, “but the bokeh was scowling at me from under one raised eyebrow. Just be thankful I didn’t use f/8.”

It seems appropriate, or circular, or something, that we spent a chunk of our 30th anniversary doing legwork for Child One’s wedding – though I’m slightly bemused that modern weddings seem to take so very much organising when our own, so far as I can remember, required a trip to see the lovely registrar, an uncomfortable visit with the vicar (a ferocious and humourless man, known within our family as the Witchfinder Pursuivant), an appointment at the reception venue with the banqueting manager, a trip to a printer for invitations, and a phone call to a florist. Still, it’s all steps – and where would I be if I didn’t have things like this to moan about? And after a morning of live-messaging bedding plants, and measuring trees, we did at least deserve a nice sit-down, and a small bucket of Aperol spritz.

Cheers!

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