I’ve been asked about P a lot in the interviews and conversations I’ve had since The C-Word launched, and rightly so – because as well as the lead male in my life, he’s also the lead male in my book. People have asked whether The Bullshit has made us stronger (I don’t think so; we were an impressively tight team in the first place), whether I’d have been able to do it all without him (yes, but purely because I’d have had no other choice) and what it is about me and P that works so well. That last question is a tougher one to answer. It’s like trying to pinpoint why Brian Clough and Peter Taylor made the perfect double-act, or why Lennon and McCartney were so prolific (yep – that is the high regard in which I hold my relationship). In truth, though, I am aware of at least one secret of our success: P has a rather brilliant way of telling me to shut the fuck up.
The morning following our nuptials was fine – lovely, in fact. Hand in hand, we headed down from the bridal suite as man and wife for a gorgeous breakfast, met by well wishes and knowing winks from our guests. (Little did they know, the bride had ruined the need for her sexy Rigby & Peller ensemble with a series of tequila shots bought by the groom’s mates. The way I see it, if you’re sober enough to consummate your marriage that night, you’ve not had enough fun at the wedding.) Later that day, we packed everyone off with a cupcake and a kiss and stayed at our beautiful venue for one more night with the plan of having a romantic evening in, drinking champagne in our Jacuzzi bath and reminiscing about The Best Day Of Our Lives over a lovely dinner. Only it didn’t quite work out like that. Because I, for reasons known only to myself, spoiled it by throwing an almighty strop.
How poor P lasted through an afternoon of sporadic cartoon sobbing I’ll never know (perhaps his Blackberry-Googling was for annulment lawyers instead of cricket scores?) but by early evening he cracked. And I can remember the exact whinge that did it.