Sixty years ago my father was at Wellington airport to pick up a tall gorgeous glamorous brunette who had travelled all the way from England to marry him. They had met many months before in London, where she was a nurse and he was on his OE. So romantic!
As soon as he saw her, he knew, with a sickening certainty, that she wasn’t the one for him. All good for my Mum, who at that stage hadn’t met him and was passed out in a stupor at the hairdressers having worked a 72 hour weekend as a housesurgeon at Auckland Hospital, but pretty unpleasant all round for Dad and the dish. She stayed with the family for three weeks before flying home – not sure how long it took my Dad to screw up the courage to tell her there wasn’t going to be a wedding after all, but he must have done it eventually. Yikes.
In retrospect, this wasn’t the best story to tell my 21 year old before she flew off to Canada to reunite with her lover, but on the other hand, maybe it will make her feel more relaxed, knowing the pressure’s off for a romantic ending? Anyway, Canada’s a lovely place at this time of year, I’m told…