This Much Is True

Bastille Day 1968 was the First Fuck — for Heather and me, that is. It’s fifty-three years ago and the joyous memory ignites me still. Through the years we have made our lives together and apart. It was essential for me to live in an English-speaking country and essential for Heather to live in a Dutch-speaking country, accessing the archives for her work. She and my old Cambridge ADC lighting-man beau, David Bree, met and liked each other and they bought a house together on Amsterdam’s Prinsengracht canal. And the years went by and the laws got sharper and we realised that although we didn’t believe in ‘marriage’ as such — and the thought of referring to one another as ‘wife’ makes me feel sick — without a formal civil partnership, should one of us fall ill, no hospital or doctor would release information to the other. It seemed the obvious thing to do and we decided that doing it in England was probably easiest.

Lambeth Town Hall was to be the venue for our nuptials. I had decided the date should be 26 June 2013, seventy years to the day after my parents’ wedding. Heather would come over shortly before and I had to leave for a job in Australia on 17 July. Our very close friends, my Australian lawyer and his wife, Sandy and Dianne Rendel, who happened to be visiting London at the time, would meet us at the town hall and be our witnesses. My favourite restaurant is Brasserie Zédel, opposite the Piccadilly Theatre in Sherwood Street, and I invited Denise, my beloved assistant, and my best friend, Carol Macready, to join us after the ceremony. I had no idea what was involved but I went to the register office and booked the day and the table at Zédel. It was deliberately low-key.

On the appointed day, my long-time driver, Dave Pask, arrived at my house, beautifully suited and booted to take us to the town hall. On arrival, we waited in the anteroom until someone asked us which fiancée was the bride and which the groom? Heather is intensely private and found the whole thing mortifying rather than moving. She nearly expired with horror at the question, and I tried to explain that we didn’t quite see it like that and it was myself and the other lady who were getting a civil partnership. We were led into another room and the extremely courteous lady registrar explained that this was NOT to be our Splicing Day but only our Answering Questions Day, preparing for another future date to be arranged. ‘But I’ve booked a table, can’t you do it today?’ I asked. ‘No, I’m so sorry. This is the process we have to observe,’ the registrar said kindly. I contained my rage; no point in fighting with officialdom, especially such a pleasant example of it, but what it meant was that after we had gone through the history of our relationship from 1968 to the present day, showed our passports and birth certificates and signed various documents, my little ‘Unwedding Party’ went to Zédel, claimed our table and had a merry time. To say I felt a right twat doesn’t quite convey the depths of my squirming; of all things to fuck up, this was the worst. At least I’d been able to rearrange the Actual Day for two weeks hence, according to the rules. It had to be 16 July, the latest possible date before my departure for Australia. The Rendels wouldn’t be there, alas, they’d already have had to return to Australia, but Dave Pask and Denise and Carol bravely agreed to attend Take Two. Carol and Denise were the new witnesses.

Dave turned up punctually, again suited and booted, and he drove us four ladies to the town hall. We were all hysterical with laughter. We went together into the main room — there were flowers everywhere. The same nice lady was officiating. She made a very good speech, not religious at all (we were glad of that) but expressing a pleasure in our happiness, and wanting us to realise the seriousness of what we were doing. She shook hands with Heather and me, wishing us every happiness, and off we scooted for the Second Lunch at Zédel, just Heather and me and Carol and Denise. As it turned out, on my arrival in Australia I was taken straight to hospital with a wandering gallstone and given intravenous antibiotics. But it didn’t matter: all I could think about was the fact that we were well and truly spliced — TWICE!

Getting Older

Getting older is a hideous experience. I’m not someone who believes old age is a blessing — bollocks! It’s fucking awful and you get through it as best you can. I’m glad I only have to do it once.