The Romantic Proposal
I’m getting married this July.
I met my fiancée through a mutual friend’s birthday party five and a half years ago. Unbeknownst to me, I was being set up with some other girl who was there. This was done as subtle as subtle can be, as I didn’t find this little fact out till three years later.
Mrs Dan-To-Be and I have lived together for almost four years now, and two years ago I took the massive step of proposing. It was after a bit of pressure admittedly; my girlfriend desperately wanted commitment from me and, in a typically bloke way, it hadn’t really occurred. I wasn’t against it, as she seemed to presume, I just genuinely hadn’t considered it in the way I was ‘supposed to’. That’s not to say it didn’t feel right; it just took me a while to get there. Anyway, she’s definitely the one for me, despite the fact that she watches soap opera and is obsessed with Jordan’s ITV2 show.
Taking the step is an enormous thing nonetheless and I took a week out to have a think, visit my mum up north and mull it over. Over that week I realised I wanted to be with her forever and decided I would propose the very second I returned home, in a big, unexpected, romantic gesture. So I loaded myself up with gifts: her favourite Summer Fruits chocolates from Thornton’s, that fucking bear for every occasion from Clinton’s and, most importantly, the specially-designed engagement ring in a specially-commissioned wooden box with a specially-engraved message in the lid:
‘I love you this much. Will you marry me?’
I was buzzing as I drove the four and half hours back to Surrey. I was so excited I didn’t even stop for a Wimpy at Northampton services. I abandoned the car across three spaces outside the flats, tooled myself up with the pressies and bags bounced off walls and railings as I clambered up two flights of stairs.
Fumbling excitedly with the keys, I eventually fell through the door and burst into the lounge to find the love of my life lying on the sofa, half-asleep watching the TV.
‘I love you!’ I exclaimed, holding up my offerings.
‘Good.’ She replied, and didn’t get up. Not even to give me a hug. She remained recumbent. I had interrupted her watching some pikeys on BBC Three.
‘Well, fuck you too,’ I said, and went to bed.
I proposed two days later, after she got back from the hairdressers.
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