The Ballad of Howard and Hilda

Picture the scene. It is a Saturday evening. The Saturday just gone, in fact. We were preparing ourselves for a night out.

We were actually going just next door. These people share a party wall with us. We went to their wedding earlier this year. Surely we could remain a little casual?

Well, yes and no. Yes, because we were only travelling twenty feet and no-one else was involved. No, because I generally spend my weekends looking like the aftermath of a road traffic accident. So apparently I needed to go upstairs and do something called Tidying Oneself Up For God's Sake.

I may have huffed.

So I pulled on the quite nice dark blue jeans. Selected the blue checked short-sleeve shirt. Dug out my Dunlop retro trainers. All I needed was a dab of Chanel behind the ears and I would be knocking 'em dead.

I went into our bedroom where Katie was independently getting ready. She had put on her dark jeans, a blue checked short sleeve shirt and was rummaging around to find her pair of retro trainers.

"Are you serious?" I said.

"Bloody hell, look at us. Peas in a pod. Not a good look."

"Sod it, I'm not changing. I've ironed a shirt and it's not even a weekday."

That's what 12 years does to you, folks. That whole 'pets looking like their owners' thing? It happens in most marriages, too. Consider us a warning to you all.