After the sudden and shocking deaths of my former (separated) partner Marc and my cousin Russell in late 2011 my contract in Melbourne was coming to an end. I had been working two jury trials and billing 120-130% of my budget for the past 7 months. I was so low that an egg was a whole meal and was fitting into size 7 jeans. It was time to come home.
After a summer of sleep and soul searching, I started at university to retrain. By April I gained enough of a sense of humour to realise that spending the next 18 months of Saturday nights watching BBC dramas with my Mum might not be the best way to spend my time. At least, not EVERY Saturday night. I do love the BBC. So, I logged on to see what my local area offered online. Truckers and farmers mostly. The photos offered a variety of options. Truckers with semi-trailers/utes/dogs. Blue singlets/chesty bonds optional. A lot of the farmers were the same but had hats and their latest fishing catch. Could I be a fishwife? This was a thought I had not considered since my 5 years of renting out a basement apartment of a middle-aged Greek orthodox couple in Canberra who taught me how to gut fish as an essential skill and despaired when I turned 30 of dying an old maid.
Most of the fellas seemed sincere though there were significant basic spelling problems in a lot of correspondence and differences of opinion over their love of heavy metal, bad fashion and sexist shows such as 2 and a Half men.
Then there was Brad. He stood out head and shoulders over the internet crowd. Not the least because he was tall, chose to wear a regular shirt and not a blue singlet in his photos, but his photos depicted him COOKING !! In an apron. Using a wok and looking capable and everything. And, most importantly, he had identified himself as an Anglican. And, he contacted me (his spelling was pretty good too). So, that's how it all started.
Nearly two weeks ago he asked me to marry him. I said yes.
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