So it dawned on me that, having given you the background info on myself, I really didn’t do the whole “how I met my husband” thing any justice whatsoever.
I was at Badminton Horse Trials (an equestrian event in Gloucestershire) and I was standing in a bar marquee when a proper checked shirt-wearing bumpkin spilt his pint over my new white espadrilles. Smooth move sunshine! *facepalm*
Drunken bumpkin then attempted to offer to buy me a drink to apologise, where upon (being previously aforementioned self-respecting city girl) I informed him that I could buy my own drinks thank you very much. To which his reply was “fine, you can buy me one whilst you’re at it!”
So, naturally, being the feminist and stubborn cow that I am, I now had to prove my point/independence and actually ended up buying the inebriated oaf a drink.
But the story doesn’t end there. We most certainly did not then launch into a whirlwind romance and live happily ever after. I think we managed three dates before deciding there was no spark actually, but we did strike up a firm friendship instead.
Fast forward three years and espadrille-gate had long been forgotten. I’d just gone through a messy breakup and Gareth made a “friendly” visit down to London for a day so I could show him the sights. I was blissfully unaware of his hidden agenda, as apparently – unbeknownst to me – he had decided that the spark was now firmly there!
At the time, I was living with my parents and I can recall, clear as day, my mum saying to me after he left, “if that’s not what you’re looking for, I don’t know what is!”
“Eww no mum. He’s just a friend, he smokes, he lives too far away, it’d never work, he’s a bumpkin!!!” And so the excuses rolled on…
After numerous failed attempts made by Gareth to convince me we should go on a date, that November he informed me that I owed him a favour “as a friend” and needed to accompany him to a christening in Devon where he was going to be Godfather. I begrudgingly accepted.
To give you a better understanding, this meant leaving my house at sparrows fart a.m after a night on the razz in town, and driving 4 hours to spend time with utter strangers whilst surrounded by babies. FYI – I am most definitely NOT a baby person. I don’t “do” kids at all, in fact.
So there I am, stood at the back of this church, on my todd, when it struck me that I was in a place I would willingly pay a vast amount of money to avoid when hungover, for a guy who is supposedly just a friend and, “oh wow, he actually looks really hot in a suit”.
And I s**t you not, at that exact moment the sun shone through a stained glass window directly onto Gareth and it dawned on me…”ahhh crap. I think I’ve missed something here!”
Queue the awkward car journey back together where I am frantically trying to work out how to tell him I was wrong about us, without actually admitting I was wrong – every woman’s worse nightmare – and the rest, as they say, is history.
Skip ahead just 13 months and we’re living together, engaged and planning a wedding for 18 months’ time. “It’d never work” indeed. Pah! Mummy always knows best…
Until next time!