One in the bush is worth two in the hand?
My Englishman and I had been invited to a wedding over the weekend in the beautiful little market town of Farnham, in salubrious Surrey, and knowing what English weddings are like (bacchanalian affairs!) we made the careful decision to stay over at a local hotel.
At least, that’s what I told him.
In fact, it was only the excuse. Someone else’s newly wedded bliss, meant we could have a good crack at a night together. With NO interruptions! Clean, crisp sheets. No pets or kids to feed. No muffled TV sounds, or bedroom sounds, for that matter. I could ensnare my Englishman away for a night – away from kids, the house, the planes, the pets, and work.
She’s a hell of a mistress, that work!
It’s been ages since we’ve had a dirty weekend and even if it was only a night I was going to make the most of it. We booked a hotel within stumbling distance from Farnham Castle where the wedding was to be held and tittered a little over its name – the Mercure Farnham Bush.
It seemed appropriate. We were going bush for the weekend!
Excited about the upcoming love-fest I popped along to the M&S food store to pick up some yummy food of love, to nibble alongside our special bottle of Bollinger in the pre-wedding feast. The Bollinger is actually our wedding anniversary present which despite our best intentions hasn’t yet been drunk!
Our wedding anniversary was the 23rd May.
You see what I mean: I needed to steal him away.
I primped and preened, all the time using my wedding guest outfit as an excuse. I dyed my hair, I perfumed, I even painted my fingernails. I was prepped for his delectation, like a pig on a plate just as I had been that first night.
I fell asleep on the way down in the car, a busy week catching up with me and as I woke we were entering pretty Farnham, with its cute little brick shops and ages-old white and black trimmed lodges that look as if they are about to topple over into the cobbled yards, now filled with art galleries and card shops. Farnham has some of the best examples of Georgian architecture in the South of England, making for an extremely quaint little town.
My Englishman started fluffing over the directions to the hotel, and pulled up the email on his smartphone.
“Oh look,” he said.
“We’re spending a night in the bush,”
Snigger, snigger.
“Well I don’t think it will be mercurial,” I replied. “It should be easy to find.”
Hahahaha.
“It’s an old coaching inn and it’s been here since the 1200s. it’s accommodated more than a few in it’s time. The hotel I mean.”
Chortle, chortle.
My Englishman’s eyes widened as he absorbed the rest of the confirmation email.
“The customer agrees and undertakes to use the room responsibly. …
So far so good. How does one not? We’re not a rock band! Do many rock bands tour Farnham? The booking site had said Farnham’s claim to fame was its close proximity to the Farnborough airport – the nearest UK departure point. That doesn’t scream rock n roll.
He read on….
Any behavior contrary to good morals and public order will therefore result in the hotelier asking the customer to leave the establishment
…..
Any behaviour contrary to good morals and public order?
Bloody hell. That sounds like fun.
What on earth has gone on in this den of iniquity before us? Had we discovered the secret location of the immoral unwed away for a night of debauchery?
We drove to the hotel in quiet contemplation.
I don’t know what was in his head, but I was overwhelmed with visions of naughtiness. In my head busty wenches were courting the attention of easily led vicars…young lasses were winking at ruddy cheeked farmers and flashing a garter or two…shepherds were smooth-talking their flock…
I turned to my Englishman with a glint in my eye.
“I’m not very good with instructions.”
“What say you?
“Game on!”
And with that we checked in. I noticed the reception clocked our wedding rings, and then we were cautiously waved off into the direction of our room. With trepidation, I opened the door.
Would it be twin beds (as it had been in Tenerife?) set with white woollen rugs hand-crocheted by virginal nuns on the outer isles of Shetland?
It wasn’t.
But it was simply wonderful rediscovering ourselves as lovers, not just as Mum and Dad, or Mum and Step-dad or workers or equal-sufferers-in-the-quagmire-of-our-lives.
We were late to the wedding. But we were smiling.
Quite possibly, more than the bride and groom.
It made me wonder though; why do we lose sight of each other? Why don’t we pay more attention to our relationship?
What do you do you to keep the lurve alive?
