I’m fairly honest about the fact that I don’t really love the idea of marriage. Lots of things about it make me uncomfortable. But married I am. Happily married. Very, very happily married. To ‘the man’.

I told the man I was going to do this blogging thing, and, as always, he was supportive.

Then, I told him that I accidentally pushed the ‘go’ button and now it was all real, and, as always, he was supportive.

Then, he read and he scoured and he discovered that, so far, the only mention of him was that he is ‘not boring’.

So this, dear reader, is an ode to the man. Well, perhaps less poetic than an actual ode, but I think you get my drift. . . .

Quite simply, the man is the best thing that ever happened to me. Without him, I would not be. We are partners in the truest sense of the word.

He is chatty. He is hyper-active. He reads – like ‘real’ books about ‘important’ things. He listens to opera. He watches BBC FOUR. He is patient. He rarely loses his temper, and, when he does, the average person could be forgiven for not noticing. He is stable.

He is, therefore, just about everything I am not.

He is mine, and I am his, and together we are very, very good.

I believe that it’s utter nonsense that everyone ‘needs’ someone. I truly dislike the idea of happily-ever-after-fairy-tale-romance. I don’t believe that partnership needs to be defined by sex or gender or, even, sexuality. And I certainly don’t believe that marriage is the ultimate definition of a lasting relationship.

But I am married. To the man. I wouldn’t do it for anyone else, but with him . . . well, with him, I reckon it’s worth it.