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Regular readers of this blog will know that I am getting married soon. Two weeks from today the wedding feast will be over, and my life will return to a different kind of normal: the kind of normal which being a wife brings. I did not think that I would ever get married again. Three and a half years ago, two marriages and one live-in relationship later, I found myself having coffee with a man whom I’d known from long ago, and then a coincidental lunch (we bumped into one another two days later at a favourite restaurant), which lead to another lunch, and yet another coffee, and one theatre show, and long emails written from Toronto while on his annual visit to family, and when he returned with chocolate and maple syrup and a book for me, he took me to his favourite curry restaurant.

I remember the first meal I cooked for him: it was on my birthday, two days short, actually, of three years ago. I cooked a favourite chicken breast dish: parmesan, breadcrumbs and basil encrusted, with asparagus risotto and a green salad. I set the table beautifully. He loved that. We had sparkling wine. He loved my food. We listened to music and he told me what Besame Mucho means: but he did not kiss me then. I knew that I was falling in love with him, and despaired that he would not fall in love with me. Over the course of another couple of months I cooked many meals for us, slowly getting to know one another and beginning to introduce our children and friends to one another, until after yet another special meal shared, there was something new in the way we looked at one another over that glass of wine. There were at last much kissing. And a humble breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast in the morning: he bought me a good non-stick frying pan soon after. My old pan simply could not turn out good omelettes, a breakfast we both loved.

We fell in love over food shared, and music. I cooked and he made music: many meals have been prepared to the sound of him playing his sax.  I have in past blogposts every now and then written about meals shared. I still cook, and he still plays his sax, and in some rare moments, the oboe which I first heard him play when I first knew him, all those years ago.

Two and a half years ago, in that same coffee shop of our first re-meeting, we spoke about a song that I thought was the kind of song that people should sing at weddings: “What Are you Doing the Rest of Your Life”, and he said: “Done: you can sing it for me when we get married”. I knew then that we would get married one day. And that day is 12 days away. And I am singing that song for him.

All is set for the day. The food and flowers decided on. Canapés and sparkling wine. White flowers. We are getting married in the garden of friends: our new garden is not big enough to accommodate everyone, even though it is a small wedding. I am wearing a dress which I have had for as long as I have known my husband to be from all those years ago: 16 yrs. A simple oyster coloured, silky slip of a dress, which I have worn only about 4 times in the intervening years to other weddings. A new lacy stole and long gloves for my ageing arms, a pearl choker which belonged to my mother, my hair  loose and just grazing my shoulders, and my mascara waterproof!

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