The Seven-Year Hitch.

I married my wife seven years ago today.


Well, that's not strictly true as she wasn't my wife when I married her. Though as soon as we got married, she was. There were split seconds between being single and betrothed, but those tiny increments would be vital when say, opening a joint bank account or taking out a mortgage. And you've got to get that shit right.

Being married has only brought good. It strengthened our relationship while reassuring me that there's someone on my side when I lose faith. It's no coincidence that I often play with my wedding ring when I'm nervous or anxious. It's a physical aide-memoire of our partnership, which started sixteen years ago and has only grown with time. In many ways, that's my proudest achievement and the best thing in my life (though my automatic cigarette-rolling machine comes in at second place; that thing's witchcraft, I tell you).

And how could we not be the perfect team when our conjoined surnames make the portmanteau Poograve? When your cut & shut moniker reflects your favourite pastime, it's a sign that you've done something right.

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