Nobody sang it for me like I want to sing it for you all the time
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spatch and I have been married for ten years. Our decade's anniversary gift looks like tin, which I pictured first as the triple-eared wheel of tinners' rabbits, then as Phoenician trade. Time has not been right for ages, but what else is there to do? We signed our ketubah. We exchanged rings. We are still here.
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I am reminded of a Jan Struther piece from the 30s, which begins propitiously, "It is curious to reflect that it was really a werewolf who was responsible for our Tin Wedding party." (She was waylaid in the W's in Brewer, and ended up at Wedding Anniversaries, and an excuse for a party.)
Her friends brought sardines, loquats, lichees and “a mysterious black tin ... labelled ‘Hanami Senbei’” ("ambrosial"); tin toys, toasting forks, liver salts, petrol, and two live goldfish in a huge tin can, christened Joan and Sydney; a Tin share; a pewter beer mug; a five-pound note (“A spot of tin”), and "sundry bottles of Lamson ’21 on the flimsy pretext that ‘there’s some tinfoil, my dear, under the gold.'"
“And I still haven’t found out about werewolves.”
May there ever be gold under your tinfoil.
Love,
Nine
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Thank you!
*hugs*