As many of the loyal drinkers around Elwood’s finest ‘Booze and Talk Crappery’ (aka The King of Tonga) will know, my lovely and I are betrothed to be married in a few short months.

Yeah, I know thanks. So I thought I’d share a bit of a strange happening that we passed recently on the road to wedded bliss.

As those who have driven down this path before will know, you get past the question asked, answer given bit and all of a sudden, “Oh Shit, we’ve got to plan it.” I soon discover that there are a number of things that are essential to a wedding, and probably chief among them is finding someone who is willing and allowed to say “I now pronounce you…” and all that.

So being a fairly traditional kind of a bloke, and Ellie being such a damn fine sport, we decided to break with modern tradition and go the Church. As Reverend Lovejoy said in The Simpsons (that bastion of modern cultural development and guidance) “better to get married in the Church than the cheap showiness of nature.” I couldn’t agree more, so to cut a long story down to three words, we found one. Great little place, made of stone, full of stained glass, with some seats - everything we wanted.

Now, this is where things start to get a bit strange. We soon find out that to get married by a man of the cloth, there are certain things that are recommended before proceeding. We have to take the marriage test. One or two furrowed brows later and we are assured that it’s not a pass/fail, we don’t have to get a certain mark to be allowed to wed. It’s just a guide to make sure we are aware of each other’s expectations and what may lie ahead in the matrimonial future. So sitting across from the nice Father, we agree to take the test.

The next thing I know (and feeling only slightly more comfortable than a man taking a bath in a tub full of scissors) a 168 question, multiple-choice tome is handed out. Ellie and I are quickly ushered to different parts of the neighborhood to ensure there is no cheating. Comfort levels dropping, I set off. It’s one of those questionnaires where you agree on a scale of 1 to 5 with certain statements about your relationship. Ironically similar to the Scientologists IQ test I took one night while pissed and lost in Adelaide. Anyway, I digress. “We are happy with each other.” Tick, strongly agree with that one, maybe this won’t be so hard. “We have discussed our future financial arrangements.” Gulp, Umm, better say yes or he’ll think we’re bums. “We have discussed the religious upbringing of our children.” Comfort level dropping, dropping. On and on it went. All in all though, it wasn’t too painful and in the end I was pretty happy that we’d agree on most of the answers and would get the big thumbs up from the good Father. So we walk off smiling into the sunset arm in arm, comparing notes and growing in confidence that surely this was indeed the beginning of a match made in Heaven.

We even got the same answers for the old “how many kids?” chestnut. Boo-yah.

Two weeks later and we’re back in the Parish office contentedly waiting for our results, and, it’s fair to say, a bit of a pat on the back too.

Now, your results come in the form of strengths and growth areas. No worries, hit us with it, how did we go? Well, everything was grand except for one area. Oh bugger, I thought we’d nailed it. So what was it? Finances? Religious upbringing of our kids? Division of household labour? No. The only growth area for us is our expectations of married life. Bugger. That’s a big one to muck up, isn’t it. How did we get it so wrong? Well, here’s the rub, we didn’t. Every question related to married life together we agreed on one hundred percent. “I cannot see any reason why we wouldn’t stay happy together.” We both strongly agreed. “I cannot see my feelings changing toward my partner.” Again, two big pairs of thumbs up. On and on it went, until we were told, by the man who will marry us, that to have such high expectations is a little bit unrealistic, and we should be prepared for the ‘fact’ that there will be troubles and testing times. After all, “over forty percent of marriages end in divorce.” Now, I am aware of the stats, but being told this by the good Father was a little bit disconcerting. I thought he’d be happy with us having such a positive attitude. I certainly wasn’t ready for him to bring up the D word, before we’d even booked the organist and flower lady.

Slightly deflated, we get back in the car to head off. Then, after a quizzical glance at each other, we had a good laugh and drove back home. I’m not sure if this was his intention on delivering the warning about the dire straits that we’re apparently sailing into, but, I can assure you, for Ellie and I, we’ve decided not be too naïve about the whole thing. We’re just going to never argue, and always be happy.

Easy.

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