Starry starry night
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. My husband-to-be assured me we could get hitched with minimal fuss. In a registry office. With no guests. Neither of us will write special vows. I voiced doubt.
He comes from a family of eager celebrants. No life event is complete without a syndicated cake and party.
New York, New York
But no! He had thought it through, promising a New York City Hall form-filling exercise in the company of strangers, followed by a huge dinner. It sounded like the best of all worlds.
Except now, he’s talking wedding presents, having twice asked what I’m getting him to mark our big day. I’ve replayed every conversation and recall no mention of gifts. The air fare alone will mean a month of shop-brand breakfast cereal.
I turned to the internet.
It’s incredible how much bad advice lurks online. In among the mad bastards who think eating a carrot cures cancer and claims that the CIA invented AIDS, there are sites designed to take the pain out of gifting.
I input his age, sex and interests. It recommended I buy him a star. In a special presentation box. It’s apparently the perfect way to declare my love.
Had I dropped as many unsubtle hints about an Apple Watch as he has, I’d be beyond furious.
And what does the purchase of a star say about me?
That I’m an old romantic?
Or an idiot who can’t be trusted with access to a joint bank account.