Seven Days Wed

Pink and green Wayfarers, pink and green French Soles. Arriving at work, I bumped into one of my consultant colleagues, and Troy's surgeon. He enquired after our well being, 'Great,' I said, 'we got married a week ago today.' He raised one eyebrow, subtly, 'And you're still married. Well done.' He smirked, not quite as subtly, as he strode off. That took the wind out of my newly wed sails a tad. I salvaged my idyllic status by setting up a looping slide show of wedding photos.

I saw three of my 'regulars' in the course of the day, which is always fun, but each one invariably takes longer than a patient you don't have to catch up with, socially. By four pm I was at my third hospital of the day, and desperately in need of a break, but no luck. Xanthe was singing at St Peter's, Eton Square at five, so once I finished my reporting, I decided to hit the Matches sale. There were a couple of DVF holiday dresses I had my trained observer's eye on. Or I mean, on which I had my trained observer's eye upon. Jesus, you can take the pedant out of the girl, but you can't...

Bugger, that so doesn't work.

When I went in last week, the girls complimented me on my shoes. 'M&S - £19.50' was my smug reply. This afternoon it was the turn of the sunnies. I explained their meagre provenance, and was rewarded with a sychronized eye roll. Much chit-chat and a glass of fizzy water later, and I am the proud owner of a seriously cleavage-enhancing Von Furstenburg halter. So much for my self delusional promises of cutting back after the wedding. But it's a holiday dress, and I need one. Seriously.

So I totally missed her singing, as her little muckers would say, and arrived just in time to pick her up. I swear she had been at the Communion wine, as she giggled uncontrollably all the way home. Must be de-mob happy, only three more days of school to go, and she's on to pastures new. Over a pre-dinner Chards, Troy tells me he has been getting rid of the defunct legal stuff. Shredding it, and it has taken all day. Tonight Matthew, I am going to be Roger Shredderer. Maybe the word 'be' is redundant in that last sentence.

It's Chi Chi Cone Carne doing Drag Bingo in the pub tonight, so we're giving it our usual Thursday swerve. Even got married on a Thursday night last week to miss it, so how bad can it be? We had eagerly anticipated a camp joke-fest, with rollocking innuendo for every number, what we got was a bloke in a frock with no gags. 66 - Clickety clix - what's wrong with 66 - two huge pricks? OK, the frock was cute, but the script sucked.

So I am breaking with tradition, and writing at home, full of Vietnamese chicken noodle soup and chilled Chardonnay. Oly and Reggie are curled up in the crooks of our knees on the sofa, and a soporific lavender candle is flickering, aromatically, in the background. And our romantic bedtime viewing is - Hitman.

We may only have been married for a week, but we have been together for five years and one week. Precisely.