56-year-old bachelors rarely get married, especially if they are dairy farmers in tiny towns like ours. The news of my engagement to Anthony entered the usual gossip mill which, as the ‘gossipees’, both alarmed and delighted us in equal amounts. I am very glad that twitter wasn’t around back then.
Anthony’s vast family of siblings, nieces and nephews, and Auntie Dorothy, mostly responded with “It’s about time!” sentiments and so did his friends. My smaller family of a mother and two brothers also, perhaps a little more reticently, protectively, joined the small throng of “It’s about time!” well wishers and my friends were probably relieved to know they would never again have to hear my woebegone unrequited love stories about Anthony.
My best friend was (still is) the Anglican priest, Tony, who married us so it was only natural to meet with him beforehand. It wasn’t the greatest of meetings, however, because Anthony was gruff and silent and in a hurry to get back to the farm because he was milking the next morning. After Anthony left, Tony and I went to a pub to discuss what the hell had just happened and, even though Tony was probably part of the “It’s about time!” brigade, he was nonplussed by Anthony’s odd behaviour.
“Cold feet?” I ventured
I got home to my lovely little bedsit in Subiaco where our engagement had become a certainty and I put my music up to high volume in order to drown out the sound of the telephone ringing and ringing and ringing.
The next morning, my phone once again began to ring and ring and ring until finally, knowing it would be Anthony apologising and declaring love, I answered it.
“Hello,” I said, pretending to be as calm as a cucumber.
“It’s about time!” he said.
jmgoyder 
I don’t expect you thought it was funny but you made me laugh!
LOL Well told!
Loved this
wow –