Dateline: 25 March, 1967.
My 21-year-old parents get married and merge noses. It was the last of their body bits to be cojoined, and although you can't see it here, my lovely mother is up the duff. My grandfather gave them 12 months.
Forty years later, the Colonel and Lady Duck are still very happy, thank you very much, and still like trying to merge noses: the redbrick look on Colonel Duck somewhat spoils the illusion, but not the loveliness.
And this time I am behind the camera, not inside the womb. So guess how old I turn this year? Heh. But this is not about me, this is about them, and how wonderful they are. They have been to hell and back in some ways, and still hold hands. They are a wonderful advertisement for having your babies young, and believing in each other. They can niggle, and nag, and get on each other's nerves, but there's never any question about walking out the door in frustration. You just don't do that when you're best friends. It's a hard act to follow, but I'm trying.
So late yesterday we choofed down to their prickle farm and spent today catering for a crowd of friends and family who popped in from 10am onwards to bask in forty years of love; we made pizza after pizza and sliced up all the gorgeous cakes made by Lady Duck and her friends, and served tea and coffee and later oodles of booze. Unfortunately we couldn't stay for the whole day, and no doubt the party is still going as I type. As it should. Forty years of happy marriage is a rarity these days, and they deserve every accolade they get.
Party hard, dudes, and may you be together for many more years to come...