Everyone knows that an 18th or 21st birthday is more important than all
of those that precede: in a time when it is unfashionable to take
ceremony seriously, they are somehow supposed to act as just
that –official marks of personal transition from childhood to adulthood. In the UK 16
is the age when taking part in full-blown hot-and-sweaty nooky is no longer illegal. In addition, after such licencious back-of-the-bus-stop bevaviour, said spotty teenage-types can pop down the corner shop or garage to
buy 20 fags (if they've got any money left over from buying sweets). At 17 one can obtain a full driving license in order to kill other people as designated driver. It is, however,
only at 18 one can buy proper and legal alcoholic drinks at the pub and vote, surely the mature
stuff of glorious adulthood. So, I'm not quite sure about what the old 21st
celebrates, except that the less spotty youths in question might have just finished college or are
now able to get drunk on more expensive drinks in more
expensive night clubs.
As a poor youth, my 18th was a lovely time spent at home. But even though I received 18 presents from my lovely new girlfriend (above), I failed to celebrate it in quite the way I might now expect – would then that I could have imbibed delicate champagnes, fine wines and fiery exotic cocktails. The next year I recall the Memsahib spending her 21st at a Italian pizzeria on the Cottingham Road in Hull tossing elastic floury pizza bases high into the air, a skill she never quite mastered (perhaps if she'd devoted more energy to this activity we'd both be in a very different place today!). My own 21st was rather unceremoniously spent at my Aunt Nell's 80th and, because I was driving, didn't touch a drop. I think it's safe to say that since that time I have endeavoured to make up for it on any and every occasion!
Our current year sees two significant events, our 25th wedding anniversary, that occurred this last weekend, and the Mem's graduation next Friday. There are as many approaches to such occasions as there are souls, but being an incurable romantic creature (and a party one to-boot) it is only fitting that these occasions have been correctly and justly celebrated. Our parents were not endowed with either the means or the ability to host big parties, so we have sought to ensure such great occasions are not forgotten.
But how do you celebrate a 25th wedding anniversary? Should the couple go back to the same church –him in a tux, her in white– saying the same comforting words, inviting the same supportive people, eating the same memorable banquet? Are they important and comfortable metaphors of perhaps the most important occasion in life, or over-used clichés and empty talismanic incantations from a day long gone? It stumped us. After all, we're simply not the same people we were 25 years ago.
Back in October 1987, in our early 20s, we took delight in arranging the rings, dress, cake, church, reception, invitations, cars and speeches. It was going to be our day, even though parents were paying. In fact, it was because our parents paid that we had less control over the occasion than we believed. It was a church wedding partly because of our parents' inclinations and partly because we were believed in the solemn sense of occasion. Catering was done by a central London vegan restaurant I previously work at (and no alcohol at all!) – to have done otherwise would have been to court severe disapproval from our elders and betters. It was, nonetheless, a lovely November day – a sunny, autumnal All Saints' Day to be precise. It was the last occasion my mother and father (divorced 20 year previously) were in the same place and the only occasion that particular selection of family and friends were in one location. Everyone went away smiling about the lovely young couple.
That night we went back to our little cottage in the woods in Hawkhurst, Kent, unpacked the car of all the boxes and gifts (mostly glassware, I recall) and went to bed late and completely knackered: no honeymoon–the Mem had work the next day!
Living in Hong Kong for many years has enabled us to come to terms with who we are –warts and all! It has meant we have been able to rearrange our life with a little more certainty and determination. It has also meant we have kept the friends we want. Our 25th anniversary, therefore, had to reflect who we are and what our lives have come to mean now. Our daughter Alys, and her boyfriend Victor, who live here in Hong Kong joined us. We flew in our daughter Rachel, and her boyfriend Tom, from London. Both of my brothers were in town, Mark from the UK and John who lives here with Virgie. And we had to fly in the legendary Craig Ramsay to be our official photographer–his photos will remain a brilliant reminder of a great week.
With family thus united, we began the Nov 1st 25th silver wedding anniversary festivities with a trip to the pictures: Skyfall may be worthy of many-a frothy blog, but let's just say that it was a suitable smashy blockbuster to begin our celebratory weekend. Indeed, I believe it was the first film we'd watched at the same time at the cinema! Our evening finished with cocktails at the stylish Aqua on 1 Peking Road: the spectacular view of Hong Kong harbour from up there never fails to impress.
Friday evening was the family dinner, the chance for us to spoil them. The Mem and meself first visited 1881 Hullett House for dinner earlier in the year, before a wonderful concert by the great Karita Mattila, and both considered it a perfect venue for such an event.
The dinner at St George, the Western restaurant upstairs in Hullett House, is the place to expect the extravagant and the refined (not to mention the expensive!). Accompanied by our favourite champagne, Billecart-Salmon rosé, each course was exquisitely prepared and presented.
It did not disappoint on all accounts. Even the restaurant manager, Gregoire, performed at his best elaborating on each dish and adding a level of informal formality that only French restaurant managers can.
We retired that night to Ned Kelly's Last Stand, Tsim Sha Tsui, the great trad jazz pub with an outback Australian theme that just works together and I don't know why. And so to bed...
Our Saturday involved doing not much until the evening do at Hebe One-O-One, where we chose to include as many as could make it for our celebration of 25 years. We weren't sure if the ground floor would be big enough to cater for the expected number of guests, but our fears were ill-founded. In the event, such was the service that our guests could barely empty their glasses without someone surruptitiously filling them and there was too much food: somewhat inebriated smiles all-round!
It was so enjoyable to see all of our friends and family: such kind support meant, and continues to mean, so much. And as the choir in its cups sang Fools Rush In as the Mem sat between them, I felt we had reached the finale of our celebration; the combination of family and friends, of past, present and future – the cheers were genuine!
I'm not sure that waking up next to the same person for 25 years constitutes any sort of achievement (other than as an unfortunate comparison with others). Sure, we all have our ups and downs, but if living with someone is sufficiently pleasurable then is it not reward enough? As I said in the requisite speech of the night, I couldn't imagine living one day without her then (in 1987) and I can't now.
I hope you'll forgive me for waxing on a bit about this weekend –a little bit of self-indulgence, I'm afraid– but I don't suppose we'll do another one! I believe if you're going to do something, then it's better to do it exactly the way you want and do it well. This was what we want, the way we want and by so doing we've made up in whiz and bang what we lacked on all those special occasions of the past.
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