It was twenty years ago today

The Britain into which Hannah and I were born was a different country.  Margaret Thatcher was yet to win the Cold War.  A Mars bar could be yours for eight-and-a-half pence.  It was only a decade since we'd won the World Cup rather than, you know, 50 years.  And arranged marriages were the norm.

I can remember the day, aged twelve, that my mother brought me a picture of Hannah - a crude chalk drawing on an old school slate.

"She's so beautiful!" I declared, distracted from my homework translating ancient Greek.

"Indeed," agreed my mother.  "She is of reasonable breeding and should provide us with an heir.  You are to be married within the month."

"But what if I don't love her!" I cried.

"Love?" exclaimed my mother.  "Love?  What's love got to do with it?  Her parents have offered a sizable dowry, which will allow us to clear your sister's gambling debts and restore the Davies family to its rightful position in society."

We met on September 13th 1997, our wedding day, and naturally Hannah fell instantly in love with me.  Since then our marriage has been based on communication and respect - she tells me what to do and I respect her authority.

Has it really been twenty years?  It has passed in the blink of an eye, and soon we're going to have to line Pete up for marriage.  Several families have expressed interest, although it's so hard to find one that matches our social class.  Perhaps we'll do the royal thing and let him marry a cousin, thereby cementing the dynasty and concentrating the wealth rather than diluting it.

Either way, all I can hope is that my son's life will be as happy as his parents'.

Mere children (they also hadn't invented colour photography back then).