Tag Archives: Anniversaries

Joke 467

3 Jul


English: Johann Gottfried Schuncke (1777 - 186...

English: Johann Gottfried Schuncke (1777 – 1861) and his wife Elisabeth at their golden wedding anniversary 11. April 1860 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

From ajokeaday.com


To celebrate their fiftieth wedding anniversary, a couple returned to their honeymoon hotel. After retiring to bed, the wife said, “Darling, do you remember how you stroked my hair?” and so he stroked her hair.

She reminded him of the way they had cuddled, and so they did. Then, with a sigh, she whispered, “Won’t you nibble my ear again?”

With that, the husband got out of bed and left the room.

“Where are you going?” cried the wife.

“To get my teeth,” he said.

Nice Day For A White Wedding

1 Jun

Restless Jo in Portugal posted her wedding photos and asked her readers to do the same.  Click on the link if you want to join in.  Please!  I’d love to see your wedding photos.  You choose from which marriage 😉

As chance would have it, it’s my 27th wedding anniversary today (it’s the Hub’s as well, but don’t remind him; he’s miserable enough).  To celebrate, here are some photos.  They are not very good because the photographer was really bad and the Hub winces when he looks at them.

At least, I think that’s why he winces…

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Unhappy Anniversary

15 Aug
South Africa (orthographic projection)
Image via Wikipedia

Imagine it’s August 2021 – what is your life like?

If ever there was an exercise in futility…. 

On this very day, Fifteenth August, 1996 – fifteen years ago – I arrived back in the UK after fourteen years in South Africa, with two children, two prams, eleven trunks full of stuff I wouldn’t see for eight months, six suitcases, and the expectation that the Hub would follow me and we would have no trouble finding jobs, a home and a happy new life.

The Hub followed me, so that was something.

We found ourselves homeless and jobless; he got sick with CFS/ME; our money ran out; and three of our parents died within eighteen months of each other.  Did you ever stand in a hurricane and wonder how you got there?  Me neither, but I bet I know how it feels.

Work for a better future, definitely; but don’t expect it.  Expectations are a waste of time.  Dreaming is a waste of time.  Live in the now, and make the most of it; be grateful for what you have – a happy marriage; great kids; much laughter; a roof over your head and food, however burnt, on the table.

I’d rather look back on laughter and good times than hope for it to come, because there are no guarantees.

Joke 29

22 Apr

Joe thought he had conquered the problem of trying to remember his wife’s birthday, Valentine’s Day and their anniversary.

He opened an account with a florist, provided the florist with the dates, and instructions to send flowers to Joanna on those dates along with an appropriate note signed, “Your loving husband.”

Joanna was thrilled by this new display of attention and all went well until one day, some bouquets later, Joe came home, kissed her and said offhandedly, “Nice flowers, where’d you get them?”


9 Jan

Today is the third anniversary of Mum’s death.  What a contrast the weather is to last year, when we couldn’t go to the cemetery because the snow was so thick – glorious sunshine today, though a freezing wind made coats a necessity.

Mum is a teenager in this photo.  Her teeth were lovely then but she got gum disease in her thirties and had them all out.  I always considered that a warning – choose between your smile or your fix.  Also, smoking gives you lots of wrinkles: Spud wouldn’t kiss Mum until he was nine because he was scared of her wrinkly face.  It still makes me laugh.

Mum was not a great housewife compared to me, and I am not a great housewife so that will give you an idea of how bad she was.  In fairness, she had a demanding full-time job – and even had three jobs at one point – so she had more of an excuse than I do; but once she acquired the habit of not cleaning, it never left her, even when she retired.

My Nan called in after church one Sunday morning when I was about eleven, and Mum hadn’t started to clean up, so Nan got stuck in to the kitchen.  Once she had finished washing the dirty cups on the side, she made tea in them.  Fortunately she left straight after, because the tea went down the drain – two of the cups Nan washed were used to hold Mum and Dad’s false teeth.

Sad Anniversary; War Isn’t Over

8 Dec

Can you believe it’s the thirtieth anniversary of John Lennon’s death?  It was one of those moments you remember where you were when you heard it. 

I heard it on the radio before school; probably on Terry Wogan because my Mum liked him.  I met a friend on the way to school and it was all we talked about; he was a massive Beatles fan.  We were having a bad winter and the snow was the thickest I’ve seen it until January just gone.

Where were you when you heard the news?

Four Things

8 Sep
An used toilet paper roll

Image via Wikipedia

Have you noticed the date?  8/9/10 

That’s all I have to say about that.


Sad news for us: we lost our littlest fish: she who must not be named because I named her after a friend and I don’t want to say ‘X is dead.’  She was just a weak fish, we think; though she had a hearty appetite.  I gave her a worthy burial with the crisp packets and apple peelings.


I was going to write that today marks the seventieth anniversary of the start of the Blitz but I got it confused with the fortieth anniversary of the founding of Saatchi & Saatchi; don’t ask me how.  The Blitz anniversary was actually Tuesday 7th September.  1000 German planes flew across the North Sea to see us off. And failed miserably.


I’m still enjoying Vivinfrance’s war memoirs; they are fascinating.  She told a story about her Dad and some black market sugar, and it reminded me of my Dad and the toilet paper.  When we emigrated to South Africa in 1982, we had no money (one of the reasons for emigrating in the first place).  Dad was working for Sasol, a huge corporation that turned coal into petrol.  To help our grocery budget, my father the usually honest would come off shift with a toilet roll taken from the men’s loos.  One day, he heard from a colleague that the company was cracking down on staff pilfering – stationery, equipment, and so on – and he went home in a panic and he and Mum spent an entire night ripping up a hundred half-used toilet rolls and flushing them down the toilet.  What really made me laugh was that it was unmarked paper and the company couldn’t have come in to the house asking to see it.  The price of a guilty conscience, I guess: a huge water bill.



A Day Of Firsts

1 Jun

Today is the 1st of June. It is the first day of my work placement; the first time I have been out to work in twenty years; the first day I have been married for twenty-five years; the first time both of our boys have not been here to share our anniversary.

It is also a day of seconds: the second day of the week; the second set of twenty-five years in my marriage, and a second clock – this time, without a second hand.

Let me explain: when the Hub was the Fiance, I mentioned one day that I had always wanted a carriage clock. He promised to buy one for me when we were married. On our wedding day, he sent me a gold carriage clock, a single red rose, and a card that I have kept to this day. He also sent flowers for my Mum and a card to my parents, thanking them for me. The clock has been in every lounge I’ve lived in but is packed away at the moment, because of the decorating I did a few months back. I don’t like ornaments (apart from my clock and one another; more anon) because they gather dust and I have to clean them. The clock mechanism failed a few years ago and the Hub fixed it but it gave up the ghost again, so I set it at the time we got married – 3:25* – and gave it over to the dust bunnies.

*The wedding was supposed to start at three but I was a bit late, because I was starving and I stopped to make toast half an hour before I was due to leave for the church. I was a (UK) size 6 in those days; hard to believe, isn’t it?

This morning, I found what I thought was a jewellery box waiting for me but when I opened it, it contained a dinky little (working) carriage clock. It would have been silver but he couldn’t find one; I don’t mind because it matches my other one.

The Hub had also cut out 25 hearts from red foam and written a number for each year on each one. He’s such a romantic. It makes the kids sick.

Which leads me nicely into more anon: the only other ornament I like – love, actually – is a bunch of flowers made of metal and coloured stones, that Tory Boy bought for me a couple of years ago. It is pretty in a non-girly way; just how I like it. It represents the balance of power in this house. Spud and the Hub were throwing a ball in the lounge and I told them to mind my ornament. Spud pointed out that we’ve had loads of ornaments in the house over the years and his Dad had never broken any by throwing a ball so that made him the Boss (no, I don’t know what goes on in his head either). I asked Spud to look around and point out all the ornaments he could see that belong to his Dad. That soon wiped the smile off his face. All ornaments except my flowers are in boxes in the loft. The Hub buys something he likes and I tolerate it until it begins to crumble under the weight of a thousand sun sprinkles, and it gets packed away, ready to go in the Hub’s coffin with him one day. He’s going to need a coffin that works like the Tardis for me to fit them all in.

And there you have it, proof that she who wields the duster rules the world.

By the way, before you get to thinking I’m horrible, the Hub posted on my Facebook wall today that I was Goose to his Maverick, which effectively makes me the dead bald guy who slept with Meg Ryan.

And guess what I gave him for our anniversary? An ornament! A meerkat that has ‘I love dust’ written in sun sprinkles all over it. In a moment of weakness brought upon me by a rare glass of wine, I even promised, unprompted, not to pack it away when he wasn’t looking. I reckon I earned my 25 hearts; don’t you?

Anniversary Eve

31 May

It’s a public holiday today here in Britain, the day before our wedding anniversary.  There’s a nice symmetry to it because twenty-five years ago there was a public holiday in South Africa, the day before our wedding.  We didn’t know that when we chose the date of the wedding; we looked at the calendar on the HubMum’s wall and picked a Saturday – without looking at the Friday.  Do other people pick their wedding dates more carefully?  We had been engaged for almost three years so we didn’t see why we should wait: we looked for a free weekend a couple of months ahead and that was it.  Then we told my parents, who very kindly used their visit-to-Britain-for-the-first-time-since-emigrating savings to pay for it, and who never once complained about not getting their holiday.

We had a honeymoon in Cape Town.  Have you heard of the Mount Nelson Hotel? 


We stayed in a little bed and breakfast place just around the corner from it.  We put away R130 for our week’s food and ate out almost every night.  We did the touristy things like wine tasting and shopping.  The Hub bought me a silver ring and had my new initials engraved onto it.  We fed the squirrels in the Botanic Gardens and even stopped off to look at a nudist beach.  Well, the Hub did, for the novelty, he claimed: I think it might have been the only one in South Africa at the time.  He peeped over the wall and spotted a solitary sunbathing man of the elderly variety.  It wasn’t much of a show because June is early winter in South Africa and he was a bit, um, shrivelled as a result.

We went to the bioscope one afternoon and saw Eddy Murphy in Beverley Hills Cop; there were five of us in the cinema and we were the only couple.

We went up Table Mountain in the cable car.  We had lunch in front of a roaring fire in the restaurant at the top; it was the most romantic moment of our honeymoon. 

 We wandered around the mountain top – which is not as flat as it looks – and spotted dassies, or rock rabbits

We had taken a midweek flight because it was cheaper.   We went out most nights, to different places.  We found a little bar and the singer dedicated a song to us on the Friday night.  On the Saturday night he asked the Hub, ‘Where’s your wife?’  ‘At the hotel,’ was the sullen reply. ‘We had a row.’  I stayed in and watched Cheryl Ladd in a film about Grace Kelly’s life. 

Who’d have believed then that we’d last twenty-five years? 

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