First of all, I want to include this image to make you all laugh.
Last week, Honduras had a few days off to celebrate their own Thanksgiving. I think everywhere, not just Dowal School where I work, desperately needed it. It also coincided with our three year anniversary as a couple, a kind of pre-Halloween special, which has had few horrors, many screams and fantadtic blessings, maybe a few tricks and treats as well. Awful puns I know, but I don’t care. Pamela and I celebrated this Halloween, like we spend most Halloweens, a bit drunk and bedrazzled in fancy dress in Pamela’s grandmother’s house in Colonia Kennedy. The night we met in LP Bar three years ago (which I think now is a beauty salon), I was the joker and she was Cleopatra. The next year, she was a sexy assassin, as was I in the shape of James Bond. Last year she was Pocahontas and I was David Beckham. This year was all Pamela’s idea and what a great idea it was (so simple) in the form of 90’s cult symbol movie, Wayne’s World. She was Wayne and I was Garth. She only had to get the hat, I had to get the blond wig and glasses and slant my jaw a little (but it looked as though I was Garth on crack). The problem was, it was kind of a head fuck for Pamela’s granddad, who didn’t really know or understand what Wayne’s World was. He thought I was dressing up as a woman (something he was very against last year and let it be knowth when Pam’s cousin Santi came as a blond secretary and flirted with all the men all night), and that Pam was dressing up as a man, which she was. He’s quite a conservative and traditional, and despite seeing the picture, he was still convinced that I was mocking gender roles. Pamela especially didn’t help when she kissed me and shouted, “Wayne es gay!” That made him stand up and walk away. Nonetheless, booze flowed, as did the fun games with karaoke machines, and I had a head like a burnt out Cortina the next day. One should never mix drinks. A lesson I keep failing to learn.
The next day, my parents were celebrating 45 years of marriage. I don’t know what their secret is. They married in London, and from what my mum said, dad was still trying to convince her dad (who didn’t really to see her daughter with anyone) to give him his blessing right up to the night before. In those days, not like us pussies now, they would have the stag do the night before the big day, get trashed, and still make it to the altar the following day; none of this two or three before business, to allow eyebrows to grow back or to get out on bail after being done for incident exposure after being ransacked by his so called mates.
I guess it goes to show what my dad is all about, a man willing to sacrifice for the people he loves, but also to persist in what he wants until he gets it. My mum and dad are world class naggers (Pamela was unfortunately picking up tips – she’s got her nagging eye on me!!), but it’s made them brilliant parents. I’m overdoing the nagging part really, but they are great survivors and look for each other for support everyday. I hate clichés, but they really are two peas in a pod. Maybe that is the secret to marriage. Maybe it is that simple. I can’t wait to see the journey Pamela and I have had in 45 years. If we have three kids like Ben, Liz and myself, I’m crapping myself!!