I met my husband 20 years ago tonight.
I had just left the UK for a new job in France having had my heart broken by a boyfriend I had known since school. I had this rather optimistic idea that if he and I met in London, one last time, I could persuade him to drop everything he was doing and start a new life with me. That failed, so not wanting to invest any more precious time in him, I decided to accept the new job I had been offered on the Swiss/French border.
I took the plane to Geneva on 23rd September 1987 and checked into the Hotel de France. I knew that when I arrived I was expected to attend a dinner at a restaurant in Geneva’s Old Town. I was starting a new job at Digital in Fernery-Voltaire and the team I was about to work with were gathering that night to eat.
It was a peculiar evening – I was tired and newly arrived, and found myself amongst a group of mostly British ex-pats (funny how Brits never refer to themselves as immigrants) – clever, technical, well-travelled young people eating Swiss cuisine in this dark medieval restaurant, with a discreet waiter service, suits of armour in every crevice, dark oak tables and candlesticks.
It was like every dreadful fake medieval evening I had attended at former works ‘dos’ in the UK, but without being dreadful or fake. This place, if not everyone in it (as it turned out), was wonderful and I was part of it.
I was introduced to R who would become my husband, that evening. He was an intensely bright Scot with a First Class Honours degree and whose intelligence was so sharp that he quickly became the favourite in the office amongst management and some of the older female workers too. That lead to some problems for me, but that is another story.
You can read his blog here.