Reader, I married him.
Yesterday, on a
bright rainy Glasgow morning, Montag and I took a cab down to the register's office in Park Circus and were pronounced Civil Partners by a kindly Deputy Registrar with crow's feet, slightly unconvincing black hair dye and a friendly, expansive smile. It was a tiny ceremony with ridiculous music, a heartfelt reading of e.e. cummings by Montag's mother, and weird vows that sidestep the 'm' word. It was short, and beautiful, and life-changing, and surprisingly easy. Despite predictions to the contrary, Montag was not punched at his own wedding.
After, we had guests over for home-made quiche, salad, champagne, and slices of a cake we bought cheap at Marks & Spencer. I managed to make Pimm's cups that were potable, or at least the guests were polite enough not to dump them over the balcony while I was watching. It was a good day
. Now that Montag has made an honest man out of me, I suppose things are more the same than they ever were.