Confetti: Marriage Course

The dress is bought.  The flowers are picked.  The speech is written.  I am getting married in three weeks time and somehow, beyond all expectations, it looks like we’re actually going to have everything ready.  Well, maybe not everything.  We’ve no idea what music we’ll have on the big day.  So far we’re limited to a choice of an acapella jazz trio (shudder) and a folk singer who just does covers of Bob Dylan, in French.  So that should be interesting, but apart from that we’re solid.  We’ve even completed our pre-marriage course.

To be honest, I wasn’t really crazy about that idea.  I’m not a Catholic and I’ll readily admit I had a few preconceived notions.  I assumed we’d be sat down by a priest with some milky tea and a plate of eighties biscuits and have to listen to an interminable lecture about how using condoms would end up in a broken marriage and eternal damnation.  I was only partially right.

We arrived at the retreat on a Friday night to find an old dear handing out plastic badges upon which our names were printed.  I’ve never enjoyed anything that required a name badge, so I was immediately on edge.  I muttered something sarcastic to Dara, who quietly promised to stab me repeatedly with her pencil if I embarrassed her.  This may sound harsh, but there’s a reasonable amount of precedent, so I kept my mouth shut.  After we signed in, we were brought to a room with tea, coffee and sure as eggs, enough eighties biscuits to dam the Amazon.  They had all sorts: those pink wafer ones that no-one likes, a stack of Trio and United bars, and an arsenal of Jammie Dodgers.  Where do they get them?  It’s like there’s some sort of unwritten canon law against Hob-Nobs at church meetings.

Dated refreshments aside, the course actually turned out to be really worthwhile.  Basically it was just the old dear and her lovely husband talking about how they made it through half a century of marriage.  Maybe it was the Satzenbrau hangover (don’t ask), but hearing this 75-year-old man talk about his love for his wife after all these years actually got me a little glassy-eyed.  After each topic, Dara and I had to open these workbooks and answer questions about our own relationship: I get annoyed when…. I get upset when… I am at my happiest when … The idea is that you fill in the blanks and then swap books.  It sounds ludicrous, but it was actually the first time we really sat down and talked seriously about our differences, doubts and dreams.  We suddenly both realised how huge the commitment of marriage is: that no matter what happens between us, this is forever.  Everything went very smoothly until the very last lecture, which was presented by two lovely people who really did try to tell us that our marriage was doomed if we used condoms.  ‘This an outrage’, I whispered to Dara and stood up to ask a question.  ‘Excuse me”, I said.  “Yes, do you have a question?” said the awfully nice anti-Durex man.  The room turned round expectantly and suddenly, I felt a sharp, stabbing pain in my thigh.  “Urgh, em… no, no, sorry”.  I said as I sat back down in my seat and looked across at my wife-to-be, with a Staedler HB in hand, smiling innocently at me.  The top of the pencil had broken off, and was now presumably lodged in my upper leg.  Something I already knew: Dara gets annoyed when … I make a scene in public.

By the time we picked up our certificate, we had formed a new level of love and trust as a couple ready to make that big step. Which was handy, because the next week I went on my stag.

Now I’m sorry, but it would be a betrayal of my sex to detail the events of that weekend, not to mention potentially prejudice a number of ongoing court cases.  Suffice to say, no animals were harmed and we had fun, it was laddish banter, enough said.  There was one issue though: I didn’t call Dara over the weekend.  My argument/lie was that I was only gone for two and a half days and anyway, my battery died after one day.  Her argument was that I was a crap liar and a thoughtless git sometimes.  As her hand reached for the stationery drawer, I reminded my future wife of our new level of trust and love.  Dara gets upset when … I’m an inconsiderate bastard.  The ever-present threat of mild violence notwithstanding, I’ve had a blast being engaged, we’re both going to miss it.

So this is it.  In three weeks time, I will stand in an old French church beside the beautiful, funny, loving girl I’ve had a crush on for 10 years.  I’ll put a ring on her finger, we’ll kiss, and in the words of the Spice Girls, two will become one.  Jonathan and Dara are happiest when … we’re getting married!