STAG
I was married on November 20th, a Saturday. Perhaps it was my fault. Then again, perhaps it was a message from a Higher Power, trying to knock some sense into me, or trying to incapacitate me to the point where I would be unable to make it to the church, thereby rescuing me at the outset from years of marital misery with the wrong woman.
Which almost happened, for at two in the morning of my wedding day I found myself in hospital with an eye specialist swabbing and tut-tutting over the severity of the damage done to my left eye. He was in two minds about keeping me there, but when I explained to him that I was to be married the next day, with a honeymoon flight booked for the following afternoon, he mistook my situation for that of someone romantically attached to the woman to whom he was about to be wedded, and released me to my fate. It was lucky, apparently, that I did not lose that eye’s sight entirely.
