Starry starry night
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We live in a connected world. My phone knows if I’m about to have a heart attack. I can learn a language and order dinner without getting off the toilet. How come we can’t swipe right and change our marital status?
Later this year – after living almost 8000 days in mortal sin – I’m to marry Mr Fanning.
I’ve never been big on the sanctity of marriage. When my husband-to-be assured me we could get hitched with minimal fuss … in a registry office … with no guests … and that neither of us would need to write special vows, I voiced doubt.
He comes from a family of eager celebrants. No life event is complete without a themed cake and barbecue.
New York, New York
But no! He had thought everything through. I’ve been promised a New York City Hall form-filling affair, in the company of paid strangers, followed by a huge dinner.
It sounds like the best of all worlds.
Except now, his inbred need to mark the occasion has surfaced. Twice he’s asked what I plan to get him to mark our big day. Knowing how little attention I pay to life, I’ve replayed every wedding conversation and can find no mention of gifts. But as anyone partnered to another human being will know, that matters not one jot.
I turned to that font of bad advice, the Internet. After scrolling through page after page of flat-earther claims that carrots cure cancer lurk sites whose raise d’etre is to relieve the pain of gifting.
All I had to do was input Mr Fanning’s age, sex and interests.
After a minute of cat gifs, the recommendation engine settled on a star. In a special presentation box. The perfect way to declare my love.
He’s dropped many unsubtle hints about an Apple Watch.
What does the purchase of a random star say about me?
That I’m an incurable romantic?
Or an idiot who can’t be trusted with access to any joint bank account.
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