Silk

I got married twelve years ago. The priest riffed on my old age even then - "Grey hair is a crown of splendour; it is attained in the way of righteousness" Proverbs 16:31. Wedding parties will laugh at anything, though - even my speech had them rolling in the aisles. I'll be fifty next year and my hair is notably whiter now, though at least I've kept it. But I was old then and I often feel I have always been old. Perhaps I always was. 

My wedding suit was brown and second-hand. My sister found it in a charity shop in Welwyn Garden City and I think it cost a tenner. It was a dead man's suit that could have been made for me: like a worsted coffin. I wore a pink shirt and a brown tie - the colour scheme was Turkish Delight - and accessorised with brogues and a green carnation. We travelled from the church to the reception on a green route-master bus. It was fun. 

The tables were decorated with the pumpkins my sister-in-law carved for days in the attic of my parent's house. Kelly spent the morning of our Wedding chugging Rescue Remedy for her bad nerves, though the nerves had gone by the time she free-styled her Bride's Speech. She looked beautiful. 

I still can't listen to our first dance but it was "Storm In A Teacup" by The Fortunes, a song I had put on a mix CD for Kelly early in our courtship: the first dance at my wedding was written by Lynsey de Paul. Later on my friend Mike - DJing - triggered the fire alarm and the venue was evacuated. I was still smoking in those days and leaned against a cool brick wall in my shirtsleeves, enjoying deep lungfuls, both exhausted and happy. My dad was alive then and I finally felt as though I had finally done something he approved of. 

Of course Kelly was alive then too. It would have been tricky to get married without her. We had no idea that we would have so little time together. Her diagnosis came only six months later. 

Silk. Twelve years is the silk anniversary. Silk. I mean I'm shrugging. Our lives were not silky lives. I offered her very little in the way of luxury, just a top floor-flat in Camberwell. I took a loan out to pay the first month's rent. 

The light was beautiful and the bare white walls caught the sun. She was always happy then. 

We had a squat blue TV with a built-in video player and some hippy throws over our tatty chocolate sofa. There was no silk. The flat was musty but we loved it. I'm starting to finally get it. Its slowly filtering through. The happiness. The fun. I've come through a lot of pain and anger and sadness, and for a long time that was all I could remember. It was impossible to get past the rage and the misery. 

But I'm starting to remember: the New Years Eve when we had no money - as usual - but we drank Champagne and ate takeaway curry and watched the fireworks over the Thames, which you could see from the flat window. Shopping around Camberwell where all the shop keepers would claim Kelly as one of their own: she had to be Turkish. No she was a Greek. She was clearly Libyan. They all loved her. 

We had fun. All the time. 

None of this has anything to do with silk, of course. Except...

We bought some oatmeal from one of the health-food shops. One night some species of larvae erupted from the packet, crawled across the ceiling and began to lower themselves like charity abseilers on thin strings of wet silk. It was vile: a wriggling, wet-look chandelier in the kitchen. We were up all night scrubbing down every surface, cleaning every cupboard, leaving no maggot unturned. I haven't eaten porridge since. But then I was never a fan. 

I smile at these memories now. I can smile. The pain is unexpected and it comes without warning: sharp digs, rabbit punches to the gut. It is sly. But I am better defended now. I'm happy a lot of the time. 

Twelve years since we were married. Nine since you've been gone. Next year will be a big one if you measure out time in stacks of decades, which we all do. Next year I'll have built up the rickety Jenga tower of five decades. I'm still poor but I've developed a Del Trotter style sunny disposition: next year I could be a millionaire. Or at least a thousandaire. I've learned to dream. 

Honestly darling, you'd hardly recognise me. And not just because of the white hair.