Thanks to the monthly dose of ancient Egyptian yesterday, a bout of bronchial asthma and my football team losing – again – I’m feeling lousy. I toyed with staying in bed and forgetting things like feeding the dog, writing the blog and putting out the rubbish.

But, it’s the Old Boy’s birthday today. It’s a special one with a zero on the end. (For the next four months we’re going to be the same age, so there’s no way in heck I’m saying what number that is.) In honour of my Toy Boy’s special day I’ve dragged myself out into the cold wintry air, to post this blog for him. (I know; how good am I?!)

I put his birthday present and card out on the kitchen table late last night so that he’d get it first thing this morning. He gets up at sparrow-fart on Saturdays due to his obsession with garage sales. (Rex and I usually sleep in.) He’s going straight from the sales to number one daughter’s place. He’s taking her and the two munchkins to the football, and meeting number one son and number one daughter-in-law there at the grounds. (Number one son-in-law is playing in a district side so he’ll miss out.) I won’t see him until they all come back here for tea.

We’re buying pizzas.

I first met the Old Boy when we were about 11 years old, at my sister’s wedding. (She married his cousin.) I thought he seemed nice but was obviously too young. At that age I was more interested in spotty 14 and 15 year olds. We finally got together during uni days. I have been with him for 2/3 of my life. I don’t regret one second.

We’ve travelled together; laughed together; worshipped together; had babies; somehow got them safely through the teen years and into adulthood; mourned together; looked after each other when we were sick, and told each other to “get over it” when it was necessary. Although we both have individual interests that we’re free to enjoy, most of the time we do things together. We prefer it that way.

Love is more than a gooey heart-throbbing rush of adrenalin when someone enters the room, although there’s been plenty of that. It’s more than sex, although we’re glad it’s part of the package. It’s more than flowers and chocolates, although there’s never enough of them.

It’s trust; friendship; solidarity; fun; warmth; faithfulness; belief; hope; tenderness and a lot of other stuff I’d think of if I felt well.

I’m still in love with my husband. He’s my best friend. I would be a gibbering mess without him. Thanks for being born, Jeff. Thanks for asking me to marry you. Thanks for sticking around, when things got bleak and tough, and for believing in a better day to come.
I wish you all the happiness you deserve and more.