Champagne Anniversary

"Put the kettle on. Let's have another cup of tea," I suggest to M.
"No, let's drink champagne."

Champagne? Champagne! Is this my husband offering champagne at nine in the morning? Well, if he insists, I guess we could sip some of the celebratory bubbly. M pops the cork and zips the fizz into two wine glasses.

We're certainly dressed for the occasion as all couples should be when they celebrate fifteen years of togetherness, fifteen years of give and take and fifteen years of 'honey, please put the roll of toilet paper on facing this way not that way.' We've swopped the wedding dress and tuxedo for pyjamas, bed-heads and yawns. But, hey, we still know how to drink champagne.

We clink glasses, have our first sip and put our feet on the ottoman. M presses play. And there we are - fifteen years younger, with more hair. The year, 1995, wasn't quite the heyday of big hair but my hairstyle was more voluminous than it is today. And M, well, I couldn't help myself, "Look at all your hair."

The romantic occasion of watching our wedding video takes a turn into wide-eyed wonder at the dearly recognisable aliens at our wedding. We're hooting and hollering at the younger versions of our mid-life selves and our loved ones. Boy, how we have changed.

We're sobered at the obvious passing of time. The two toddler nephews are now strapping teenagers. The two pretty nieces handing out the order of service are, today, young women in their twenties embarking on adventures of their own. Ouch!

We count three marriages that didn't make it - six people living separate lives in different places fifteen years on. And, of course, the number of friends with whom we have lost contact since emigrating to Canada.

Good heavens! We were younger! I start to see myself the way others see me, middle-aged. The blush of youth is over, gone ta-ta and not coming back. I moved our wedding photographs out of the living room a few years back, after our friends, Jopie and Edel, who were in their eighties then, commented on how young we looked in the photographs.

Sobered, I take another sip of champagne. After this, I think those photographs are moving from obscurity in the study to retirement in the dark recesses of our bedroom. But, hey, extra lines, crow's feet, bald spots and all, at least we still know how to drink champagne!