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The author does not apologise for the foul language contained in this post. Occasionally, certain descriptive words are necessary to the content.

Wedding Anniversary Negotiations by My Midlife MayhemThe twentieth wedding anniversary plans are moving forward, although not quite in the direction I had hoped.

My sister in Brisbane has kindly taken pity on us and offered to lock up Kurt at her pad for three whole days so that the old man and I can go on a Brigitte Jones-esque ‘mini break’ for the weekend.

Kurt smiled for the first time in three months when I told him and said it was ‘rad’ – which I understand to mean that it is a good thing.

When I excitedly told the old man that I had managed to outsource childcare for our delinquent our son, his response was not the unmitigated euphoria I had expected. He looked puzzled at first and then suggested that if we could entice Nerd Child out of her bedroom and pack her off on some physics internship for the three days, we could stay at home together and save some money instead.

Now wouldn’t that be a special way to spend our anniversary?

‘Go back to f*cking Mars’, I secretly thought….(or may have actually voiced at the time).

I objected calmly to his suggestion, justifying that we WERE going to do something special because surviving twenty years together deserved a celebration of sorts. Whereupon he questioned why on earth we would choose to spend such a ludicrous amount of money on one weekend away when we could stay in the city and perhaps go to a really nice restaurant instead (!). Anyway, he asked finally, (turning the knife a little harder), was a celebration really necessary?

Who said romance was dead?

To which I assured him wholeheartedly that, yes, I personally felt the need to celebrate twenty years of living with a complete c….t.

‘How big a c….t? he asked with a straight face. ‘The biggest?’ And I realised he was on the verge of launching into his favourite Billy Connolly joke again.

I shot him one of my best withering looks.

So surprise, surprise, our luxurious mini-break for two isn’t going to be to Hayman Island after all. No, I won’t be showing off my new Speedo swimmers on the beach anytime soon. Apparently, we are going by train to that well-known lovers destination of the Blue Mountains instead. To the cold, again. Because after an enforced week at the snow (skiing) in the company of the dysfunctional family, I will really want to freeze my nuts off again the following week!

I have begrudgingly agreed to the weekend on the condition that we can stay in a swanky, deluxe hotel with pool, chocolate fountain and full access to the mini bar as my minimum luxury requirements. The old man wants to stay in a motel with Fox Sports and for us to buy our booze (like the cheapskates that we are) at the local bottle shop.

I am on the verge of committing what happened to Theon in Game of Thrones on my husband – (hold me back, Satan).

Sometimes, just sometimes, I truly question why I didn’t marry one of those lovely (but deathly dull) ‘nice guys’ who worshipped me in my twenties and would have booked a weekend on Haymen Island without batting an eyelid, simply to make me happy.

What made me choose ‘the biggest c…t’?

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