25 July 2016
We got married on 25 July 1964, in my parents’s village in Sprotbrough, just five days after my 21st birthday. As John wrote for me two years ago, on our Golden Wedding Day:
It was a day much like this
In a real Yorkshire village, with a shop, a pub, a church and chapel
Where people were kind, and Rington’s tea was delivered by their van, just tea,
With a lost village on the banks of the Don, Levitt Hagg.
Your parents’ garden heavy with flowers and fruit, where a hedgehog family lived
And the sun shone.
It shone on a beautiful bride taken that short walk to church in a limousine,
Your father smart in morning dress, my father ill at ease as if he had a walk-on part in a play he hadn’t rehearsed,
Both mothers and my cousin, your friend Joy too, looking and playing their parts to perfection.
Hats of course, but only for the ladies.
Our friends there in the village hall, toasts in South African champagne, before it became politically incorrect, the superb cake.
There were more verses, remembering the night in the airport when the plane was delayed, our honeymoon in Dubrovnik, the heat, the sights and smells, the places we went, the beach, the outdoor Shakespeare, the food (too many aubergines), the wine, the things we did and bought, the music the orchestra played every night on the hotel terrace – such good recall he had, over 50 years. And then coming home, working, being married.
We were young, dreadfully respectable (the Civil Service and the LCC) and the swinging sixties rather passed us by. Thank goodness.
The last few lines I have read to myself again today with pleasure, and yet with great sadness:
Fifty years has passed so quickly, all the things we have done and yet there is so much we still want to do. Never bored, never boring. Thank you.
We eat few aubergines.