Love and marriage September 20, 2006Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
Tags: Homoehe, Kylie
I’m off to the farthest-flung (and most hotly contested) corners of our kingdom for a wedding any minute now. As ever, there’s last minute panic in the BiB household. I have resisted the urge to accidentally machine-wash my passport, will soon finger through my small wardrobe and try to find something resembling a suit to wear, will do likewise for shoes, and am about to consider the present-buying and flight-booking chapters of the whole shebang. Plus there’s a scrap of work to finish and I’d rather like to meet two different sets of people for a last-minute drinkette this evening. Fuck, and I need a haircut. And a shave. And I suppose I have to water the plants. And clean up the flat in case the Russian secretly has spy-cameras wired up and will check out the place when I’m away. And… and everything.
So I need to blog to calm myself down.
The wedding, and the stag-do that preceded it, must have got me thinking. Yet, previously, I hadn’t given marriage much of a thought. The stag-boys, showing their best gay-friendly credentials and understanding that almost seven years sounds like ever in the relationship stakes, asked when the Russian and I were planning to get married. “Um, never,” I answered, not because I wouldn’t like to, but just because, well, I supposed I’m not used to the idea yet. I have nothing against the idea. It might possibly even very much help the Russian to get a more secure residential status in this bureaucratic paradise.
“Darling, are you chattable-to anywhere on the internet?” I asked in answer to a late-night e-mail from the Russian, still bubbling with pride at his driving-test success. “ICQ,” he answered. It’s the in chat-medium in the former Soviet Union. Downloaded the bastard. Got myself a number. Closed pop-ups for three hours. Switched off the speakers as the foghorn that accompanies the programme’s opening is likely to cause a neighbourly incident. And finally found the Russian.
“Darling, do you think we should get homo-married?”
“Oh, yes. You could put a dishwasher on the top of the wedding list and then you’d never have to do anything ever again,” came the reply. “What’s your favourite Kylie song?”
“Shocked… But I wouldn’t want a list.”
“Shocked’s shit. The Locomotion is better. But your mum would want to buy you something.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to invite anyone, ” I went on. “We’d just pop to the Rathaus in Pankow, bung one of the people from the 100%-long-term-unemployment house across the road 100 euros to be a witness and Bob’s your uncle.”
“What, you wouldn’t tell anyone we were behusbanded?” came a surprisingly tender reply from a snow-decked apartment-building near the Urals.
“Oh, I’d say we’d registered ourselves somewhere and that it was no big deal. Or do you want a big, fuck-off cake and dress? And your mum there?”
“I want a big, fuck-off, white BMW.”
I looked for Kylie on YouTube.
“In Your Eyes is all right.”
“I like that la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la one.”
“Darling, do you think we should get married? Do you miss me? Or is life actually much nicer when we’re in different countries?”
“Better the Devil You Know.”
“Life’s shit here. Berlin’s spoiled me. Life’s better there.”
“So do you think we should get homo-married?”
“It’s a very serious matter. I shall think over your proposal,” he said, deciding humour was called for, and using the polite form.
“Or do you think we should get divorced instead?” I proffered, not liking to leave any avenue unexplored.
“No, I think we’re doomed to each other now,” came the reassuring reply.
I’ll have a mortgage before you know it.