Thirty-Nine

We got married 39 years ago at the Registry Office on Tavistock Hill, Hampstead (NW 3, London). I wore a filmy blue maternity frock I’d bought at Lady Madonna in Golder’s Green and Roger wore the suit he’d slept in the night before. Due to the drink he’d consumed at his bachelor party, his head ached and he felt a bit queasy. Due to the wee baby taking refuge in my uterus, I too felt a bit off. And because of our fuzzy heads, our shock at our upcoming parental status and the fact that we hardly knew one another (except of course in the biblical sense), the day was barely memorable. We have one photograph of the moment, taken by some stranger who would hang around the Registry Office and take pictures. As I remember it cost us 10 shillings; it was before decimilization. We both look tired and neither of us is smiling. We don’t look grim. just tired and a bit surprised. It was not a memorable day.


So yesterday when I was out looking for birthday cards for Roger down at Topanga Homegrown, I saw some anniversary cards and it struck me then that our 39th anniversary had been and gone, the day after our big party. And tonight when Roger arrived home after a long day in Ventura (where he’s working all week), we had a dinner worthy of 39 years, a wine even worthier and a cake I’d made to honor such a number of years. This year I remembered first. While there is no prize, whoever remembers the anniversary first garners a moment of glory.


Next year it’s 40 years and we’ve decided we must do something special, if we remember.