The year was 1995. John Howard had become Leader of the Opposition again, Bill Clinton was “not having sexual relations” with Monica Lewinsky and Peter Andre had a top 40 hit. It was shaping up to be quite the screwy year. It was also the year I met my future husband.
You don’t know it at the time of course. That this person you first spy across a crowded room, exchange words with, kiss shyly, will one day be your husband, wife or partner.
It was a summer’s day and I had just pulled up to the beach with my girlfriend. I immediately clocked him sitting with my brother on a seat watching the surf. He slowly gave me the once over and then returned his gaze to the surf. We walked over to say Hi. His only words to me at the time were “Would you like me to call you a cab so you can get back to your car?” I turned back to look at my Mazda 121, which granted, was parked a little farther from the kerb than necessary but certainly not smartarse comment worthy. In response to this, I asked if he’d like for me to call 1987 and see if they wanted their Top Gun Sunnies back. I was also tempted to kick him in the shins and run but I was nothing if not mature. See, the first couple of times I met my future husband; he was quite the arrogant wanker. Sitting smoking a cigarette quietly in the corner of any social situation, answering my questions with short, sharp and witty observations that made him sound both untouchable and seemingly, a bit of a cockhead. A very attractive cockhead, but a cockhead none the less. All irrelevant of course, we were both in long term relationships, not like anything could happen anyway. Right?