At the time of writing, I am after five full years of marriage, and two full glasses of Merlot.

And, y’know, it’s been great. There have been tears, laughter, tears of laughter, and heart-bursting declarations of neverending adoration. Pants have been dropped, underwear lost, muscles flexed, cleavage enhanced. Friends came and went, but through the whole thing we stood united, me and Swe.Ge, chins in the air and fingers wound tightly. And the marriage wasn’t half bad either. Fnar!

The best thing about being five years married is the traditional symbolism.

“It’s our Wood anniversary!” bawled Swe.Ge not half an hour ago. “I have to give you Wood!”

Being but five years in, we still laugh at this kind of thing. A Wood anniversary would be wasted on the elderly. Anything wooden would be wasted on them, except maybe a coffi… no. I had better not.

I can recall my grandparents’ 40th wedding anniversary. The 40th anniversary is the Ruby anniversary, but the only thing in attendance approximating the appropriate gemstone was a painting of a red flower on one of the many commemorative plates bestowed on them by stumped well-wishers (my Nana still has, no doubt, boxes and boxes of crystal pacemakers and china fucking espresso machines or whatever, all of them decorated with the red letters R U B Y, just by way of ensuring she could never give a single cunting one away). No one presented her with an actual ruby, possibly because no one would know where to get one. Carbuncles, yes; the Irish underclass is covered with them. But rubies? Dear me, what pointless symbolism. Oh, that their 40th wedding anniversary been tied in with something handy! The Medical Card anniversary, perhaps. The Arthritis-free anniversary. The Feck-Off-Noisy-Grandchildren anniversary.  The Unpunishable-Pot-Shot-At-Mary-Harney anniversary. These simple, yet thoughtful connotations would make a milestone worthy of the journey, don’t you think?

But no, ruby is it and ruby it will stay, because what is tradition but the stubborn stain left holding the fabric of life together? Wood? Yes, it’s traditional, but comfortingly appropriate, given the short hop to get to five years, and the relative youth involved. I’m not going to complain about having a wood anniversary. The modern equivalent (and can anyone tell me what prize tulip took it upon themselves to rewrite such a rollicking bit of pointlessness, and not include free potshots at Mary Harney?) is silverware, which is about as useful to a young married couple as a chocolate oven. Honestly, who needs silverware? I doubt even a burglar would be bothered with silverware, for it would be a nightmare to get rid of on the black market.

“C’mere, I’ve got some hot fucking silverware here, mate!”

“And exactly what am I, criminal mastermind and all-round practical gent, going to do with a tea-tray and a set of fucking spoons? Go bring me a fucking HD TV or a nice piece of bog oak; there’s worth in natural homewares, or my name isn’t John Rocha.”

Pah. Silverware. You can’t light any kind of fire, figurative or the cold-quelling kind, with fucking silverware. Wood wins out, so you can take your tasteless jokes and stick ‘em where the sun don’t shine; Drumcondra.

In short, you’re not getting much of a blog post today. No, not because American slang for penile erection has piddled all over your morning coddle, because I simply couldn’t be arsed. I’m five years married and it’s the weekend, and Ireland might be in a perfectly blogworthy state, but there’s Merlot and felled timber, and I’m focusing on that until at least Sunday evening.

Have a good one, coddlers.