Where Everybody Knows Your Business
And so, over the weekend the fam and I went on road-trip to celebrate Neil’s birthday and to mark my 25th year in Scotland. More about that later. Our car is still in the garage after the last road-trip, so we piled into our red replacement and went in search of seafood.
The music in the car was CD 3 of our wedding mix. The music that played during the cocktail hour. Did I mention we missed our own reception? We were too busy looking for accessible photo ops around Edinburgh’s Old Town. I’m still sorry we missed out, but the Japanese tourists were intrigued.
My point is, we still revisit the wedding through the music we put together in the weeks before.
Isla knows all our songs already. She sings them back to us, which is the full circle or something.
But I digress.
The search for seafood continued. We found ourselves in the same pub we were in when we made the decision to move up here.
Neil pulled me backwards through the door (as is our dance), and Isla lead the way to our table (as is her dance).
She ordered pizza and orange juice and I broke my no-eyes-still-in-it rule by ordering langoustine.
Now. Stupid, pointless fact time. I find shellfish inaccessible, but I still order it.
Just so happened that I wasn’t the only one having trouble opening their giant shrimp. Someone else asked her partner to help her.
He said no.
At that point, my husband got up and opened mine.
Neil sets up my food sometimes. Because cutting and peeling sometimes means my food ends up on the floor. I mostly order easy food, but I also always order what I actually want to eat.
So, sometimes he helps me. Not because he is an extra-special husband (even though he is, but I would say that.) But because he is a smart husband who knows that a hangry wife is an interesting beast.
And no, he doesn’t peel my grapes. Because people have asked that, too. I wouldn’t ask him to. That’s just dumb.
Anyway, the three of us toasted Neil’s birthday and my 25th Scotland anniversary (Yes, the same day. Time is weird.)
’25 years, man,’ I said to Neil.
We left the pub after Isla shouted, ‘Hello! Can I have some more orange juice, please?’
At least she’s got manners. No need to comment on my very vocal child, entire table at the back. Hi.
We drove home and our juiced up daughter fell asleep in the back of the car. We went around again.
Isla spent the night at my Dad’s and Neil bought us Scottish gin. I told Instagram it was to celebrate his birthday and my 25 years in Scotland.
Later on, my trips down memory lane caught up with us.
‘How old were you when you landed?’
‘Twelve. Nearly thirteen.’
‘Aye, so that’s actually 24 years.’
‘How?’ I asked. ‘I’m going to be 37.’
But you’re 36, still. That’s 24 years.’
‘Well, shit. You didn’t marry me for my Math. Thank you, arsehole, my practical husband.’
And so, I have entered my 25th year here. Apparently.
Time is weird.
Originally published at Gin & Lemonade.