How we met - his story

Thank you all for your lovely response to my version of our "how we met" story. I thought it might be nice to share with you (and read myself!) Mr B's side of our story. The basic story is the same, but it's nice to know he felt the same as me, even from the off. Warning - it's pretty sickeningly cute.

So without further ado, I give to you, my gorgeous husband...

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*insert hazy flashback noise and wiggly screen here*

It’s Christmas, 2007. Gordon Brown is the Prime Minister and I’m on a train to London to meet up with some friends I’d met previously at a gig. It was lucky that I was going at all - having had to get up at some frankly ludicrous hour in the morning to get to the station so I could be on my way, I almost opted not to go at all. I walked past our meeting point once, but not seeing anyone I knew, walked past again until there were. There was this one girl who caught my eye, she was very pretty and had a nice laugh, and I was determined to find a way to sit alongside her when we went to get pizza for a cheese overdose. I don’t think that happened, because I definitely ended up alongside a tall, bearded gentleman in a Santa hat, but the seeds were sown.

Not the man I sat next to in Pizza Hut.

We went to a pub, and for the first time I had an opportunity to really study this girl. She had lovely eyes, big and beautiful (she obviously still has big and beautiful eyes, they’ve not changed a bit, and they still captivate me now), and a stunning smile, but the main thing I noticed was how damned funny she was. We chatted as part of a group, mostly about the kind of music we liked, and I realised that we had very similar tastes. I was just starting to get really interested when she left to go and see Patrick Wolf sing some songs.

There he is, singing some songs, probably poppy ones.

Between leaving and meeting up again with Rosie, a few of us adventured to Gatwick to go on some fancy trains. And ate some cheese. I was due to leave to head back to Bath to sleep before going on home, but (oh, crumbs, here comes something I’ve not told anyone before, I don’t think) I decided to stay because I wanted to see Rosie again. No, seriously, that’s not some retrospective twenty-twenty vision thing going on, that is the actual reason I stayed. (I would like to point out, I was also really enjoying myself as well, and it was going to be a wrench to leave when there was fun was to be had, but Rosie was definitely the deciding factor in it all). I think the £50 I paid the next day to get my ticket home was a worthwhile expense.

So we all decamped back to our friend's house, where we played Monopoly. Rosie got aggressive whilst playing, and I became more and more smitten as the night wore on. I think the deciding factor in it all was when she stole my beer. It wasn’t so much the fact that she just stole it; it was that she did it right under my nose, as if she wanted my attention or something. The cogs in my head started turning, and I was slowly falling head over heels.

Our game wasn't as civilised as this.

Now, if I’d had my way, I’d have stayed up all night talking to her, quite happily. But that’s not the way the night panned out at all. Instead we all went to bed, where I lay awake thinking about her for a bit before drifting off.

The next morning, I woke up and hastily dressed to get some more time in with this fabulous girl who had so won my heart. And she won it more as the morning progressed, whether it was wrestling on the bed or hiding behind my chair whilst we watched Doctor Who. We bonded in a way I never thought I could with another person. But all too soon it was time to split (although I nearly ended up spending a night in another town watching a band with her. Oh how tempted I was to draw this meeting out longer).

At Paddington, I got a sandwich, which we ended up wrestling over using our teeth, grasping either end between them and growling at each other like to hungry wolves. Until the old people stared at us too much for Rosie to continue without bursting out laughing.

The sandwich to which we owe so much.

As I boarded the train, I made a silly typing-in-mid-air gesture whilst saying to add me on Facebook. I watched Rosie walk back down the platform, looking over my shoulder (I actually watched her for a long time, giggling to herself as she walked). And two weeks passed, before I had the internet again (my parents live in the dark age) and was able to comment on a Facebook picture of hers.

A train! And Rosie! How wonderful this picture is!

And what did I say? What were those fateful words that (I like to think) won this wonderful girl's heart?

‘Is it bad that from that picture I know it a British Rail Class 76 electric train, built possibly in '51 or '52 and because it's the only preserved one I know it's from the National Railway Museum in York? Nice shade of British Rail Green as well...

And back to reality. How are you?’

The response?

‘Yes.
You complete freak.’

And we’ve been in love ever since.

I love you, Rosie B

xxxx

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D'aww. What a cutie :)
What else is there to add except, I love you too Mr B, and I'm very glad I met you that day.

P.S. I promise that's the end of the sappiness. For now...