The proposal.

Hello. Some good friends of mine have recently pointed out that I never concluded the saga of Vicky's engagement ring. I thought most people had given up on reading the blog, lost among the endless drivel about shoes, so it was nice to hear otherwise. Of course, these same friends were very quick to point out that they got lost among the endless drivel about shoes, so I will refrain from posting other tailoring tips. This was good feedback; thank you, fellows!

Now, instead, some more nonsense about the ring. You may recall that I decided against buying Vicky's ring as surprise in the proposal, instead deciding to stuff a brilliantly-crafted proposal poem into a ring box. I also embarrassingly asked Vicky's parents' answering machine for its blessing, but that was humiliating and not crucial to this stage of the story. I also foreshadowed that my next challenge was to get an engagement-ring box to hold the poem, without paying for an unnecessary engagement ring. I'll get to that in a moment. 

Instead, let me tell you about another wonderful wonder.

Although immensely proud of the poem I wrung out, I still felt that it wasn't quite enough. I am quite partial to romantic tales of penniless ne'er-do-wells actually, well, doing well, and surprising beloveds with ingenious proposals. You know, engagement rings made from spoons or onion rings, that sort of thing. Unfortunately, I am not especially crafty and don't enjoy inflicting second-degree burns on the unworthy. A poem is about all I'm good for. 

The thing is, Vick couldn't very well wrap a poem around her finger and show her family while breathlessly announcing the engagement. It'd get sweaty and difficult to read.  I needed another band-aid solution until such time as she could get her actual ring. Luckily, I chanced across the perfect interim product:

It's a band-aid with a diamond embossed onto it, if that's not immediately clear.

It ends up looking a bit like this:

It turns that I am also quite handy at getting lucky in fashionable stores full of unnecessary goods. 

To get my hands on this tasty piece of French artistry, I had to change my clothes on my lunch break at work, cycle across town (note - town not very big, so it's not too much amazing) stink out a fashionable hipster store with my bike-stink (remember - Perth gets up to 40 degrees Celsius in December), purchase  a solitary band-aid, ride back to work, shower, get changed - all in under an hour - and try to resume working without a mighty smirk. Oh, the dedication! It bodes well for marriage commitment, I think. 

(It turns out I am also pretty neat at over-emphasising minor achievements.)

With both a poem expressing my love and commitment, and a band-aid symbolising my stop-gap approach to risk-management, I felt suitably confident that this proposal could win a heart and was good enough for a woman of great consequence. 

We flash-forward to Xmas morning, 2010. The previous night, Vicky's mother had told me that it'd be terrific if I proposed to their daughter. I have a magic band-aid and the greatest poem I've ever written  stuffed into my substitute ring-box. I am still marvellously, preposterously nervous. 

Vicky and I awake and share season's greetings. We head downstairs, still in our pyjamas,  to see what Santa had brought us, and what we had bought each other, and if the cats think their own presents are acceptable. It's nerve-destroyingly delightful. 

All gifts exchanged, I tell Vicky that I have one more thing for her and head upstairs to get it. I get properly dressed in a crisp white shirt and tie. I want to maximise my chances but dressing like this is perhaps not a great idea: it's stinking hot already, our house has no air-conditioning and poor insulation and I am supremely nervous. I am a sweaty boy at the best of times. 

I tell Vicky to close her eyes. I head downstairs in a soggy, translucent shirt with my tie already loosened. I am sweating monsoons. I kneel before her and tell her to open her eyes. Vicky sees my state of dress and smiles, radiant with happiness and pity. She's positively beaming.

I mumble something incoherent about her doing me a great honour. Given everything else I fretted over in the lead up to this moment, this part is surprisingly unprepared. 

I whip out my love package. I neglect to open it in the traditional style. (Last minute doubt about the disappointment of seeing only paper inside.)

Vicky says, "is that your cufflinks box?"

And that's truly all I remember.

Heartwarming, innit? Can't you just feel your cockles smoulder? One for the ages, I reckon.

Of course, it soon became obvious that she'd also said 'yes' somewhere in all the confusion. We spent ages smooching and smiling and holding hands on the couch. These are not the actions of a recently rebuffed man. Just to make sure, however, I've asked her several times since. It's always a good answer.