This is entirely fiction. Completely. Utterly. Except for any true bits
April 22nd: Weekend takes something of an unexpected turn when we, the First Of Her Name and I are called into the garden. First Born in tears, boyfriend grinning manically and Male Heir looking like he’s found out who his father really is.
First Of Her Name insists I ‘do something’ while she milks the concerned mother bit. I’m about to suggest ‘pub’ to the men when First Born wails and waves hand at us.
I assume that means approval of the Pub option and am heading for garden gate when I’m called back.
‘I’m engaged.’ Seems the waving thing is to display this bit of grit that’s been embedded in a gold band. Make approving noises until it’s apparent First Of Her Name is now in tears.
Offer sympathy and am belaboured about head. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
When I admit I didn’t know it was coming, belabouring shifts to boyfriend (now upgraded to The Fiancé). ‘Why didn’t you ask permission?’
He points at me. ‘He said not to. He couldn’t keep it secret.’
Belabouring returns to its original target, viz me when the Male Heir confesses he knew. Oddly belabouring continues about my person while he is forgiven his trespasses.
First Born whispers to First Of Her Name and they go indoors. Through the french doors we mere males watch as a flip-chart and spreadsheet are magicked from somewhere and marker pens uncapped.
Many emotions compete: none of them are especially worthy. Hands rest on my shoulder. Fiance and Male Heir ease me away, like I’ve been staring at a car smash and I should know better. In unison they say: ‘Pub’.
On our way it occurs I am now Father Of The Fiancéd. A FOF. That actually feels quite good.
Male Heir ruins moment. ‘You’ll soon be an In Law.’ I exchange a look with the Fiance. I think we both know who is going to be the Lesser of Two I-Ls.