I’m not one of those people who needed a flash proposal, or even really a proposal at all, we’d already decided we’d marry at some point anyway.
But dh wanted to propose and I had no objections, though I did ask that he not do it in front of people. I didn’t want it to be a spectator sport, this was just about us.
It was winter, five years ago, and he was on edge. I suspected he was waiting for a right time to present itself, and girded my loins appropriately.
Christmas came and went - as Christmases so often do - we climbed a mountain together, looking out on an incredible view of the sea in the distance, but perhaps the ground was too soggy for his knees. Clearly the time was still not right.
It began to feel like a strange, psychological experiment. I was carefully not mentioning it, because it meant more to him than me, and I didn’t want to ruin whatever his plan might be, but there was a good chance we’d be married before he got his moment to shine.
Finally it was a couple of days before New Year’s Eve (when we would be taking a trip together, to a picturesque place). The rain was pelting it down, the wind roaring in the chimney, and we were doing a dutiful post-Christmas visit to my parents.
I was cracking nuts in the living room, whilst my mother reheated the final batch of mildly rancid turkey-soup, and my father searched eBay for ‘rejected gift bargains’ that couldn’t wait.
Dh came in and took me nervously by the hand. He looked terrified. The fear was contagious, and it suddenly occurred to me that he was about to drag me out into a downpour to propose.
Perhaps he had a plan? I thought.
He did not have a plan.
There, in the kitchen, whilst my mother froze mid-stir, and my father was illuminated by the light of the computer screen, he got down on one knee and said, “Chris, I love and adore you, will you marry me?”
Now, before I could answer, my father decided to interject with, “Don’t leave her if she says no!” Which really cemented the romance of the moment.
I said yes.
There was an awkward silence whilst he stood, put the ring on my finger, and we hugged.
The awkwardness hung in the air, like an unmentioned fart, as we ate the soup in a silence which lingered until we were in the car.
I walked into our house to the phone ringing, it was my mother, saying that she should have opened the champagne, but it hadn’t occurred to her. Why would it?
I always thought that my expectations were quite achievable really, but no, I’m an awful diva who wanted more.
We’ve been married five years now, and he is a marvellous husband - thoughtful and kind and considerate.
I don’t want your, “We were in a hot air balloon, and the ring was brought to me by a passing dove” stories, I want some, “He tied the ring to the dove and it was immediately snatched from the air by a sparrow-hawk” tales.