Meeting the… Boyfriend

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My parents were telling me about the wedding they had just been to.  For two people who follow a No Clapping In Church policy (which I’m prepared to bet they’ll waive, should I ever make it up the aisle), the full-on ‘guitars/improvised prayers’ affair was something of a shock to the system; and, as if that weren’t enough, they were seated next to the parents of my sixth form boyfriend at lunch.

Our relationship had been short-lived and not particularly happy.  The last time we saw each other, he had asked:

‘I’m sorry, I know this is terrible, but could you remind me how we met?’

‘Are you serious?’

He looked a little ashamed. ‘I know.  I think it was some of the stuff I did at uni, it might have affected my memory.’

 

His mother, who had always liked me, observed over the smoked salmon starter: ‘I think they met at the wrong time.’

Whenever that was.



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