Keep the month of June free - in 2019!

I had dinner with my future husband last night. Unlike James Marsters, who doesn't yet know he is the preferred father of my children, this liaison is a possibility. My "fiance" and I made an agreement several years ago that if we were both still single when he turned 50, we would marry each other.

I know of a few women who also have similar pacts with good male friends, but this pact has been a prevalent part of my life for many years now. My chosen beau is a friend whom I have known since I was 17, and has been an on and off again prescence in my life since then.

We met at university; first day, first lecture, where due to a combination of my yawning (and hence a prominent chest), and his wandering eye, we formed a happy friendship. Youth, insecurity and nerves all coalesced to ensure that neither of us would ever declare the secret yearning that our pubescent hormones were experiencing. Many years, and a failed marriage later, over a bottle of wine, the truth was finally outed, much to the astonishment of both us. A fumbled attempt at intimacy ensued, where it was decided that it was a little too fraternal for comfort.

But despite our respective spasmodic relationships, the dormant pact has always remained in the deep posterior of our cerebella.

Now if this was a Hollywood chick-flick, the main characters would actively avoid the inevitable marriage pact until the closing scene. Whereby at this point, they would realise that their one true love was in fact their long-suffering friend and fellow pact-maker. The marriage that then follows would no longer be out of desperation, but out of the lightening bolt realisation of true and abiding love.

But that of course is Hollywood where the idea of ending up an old crazy lady, with cats is both laughable and a seeming impossibility. We all know that reality can be a whole lot different.... so how many cats do I need before I am considered crazy?