In September last year, we were on our budget holiday, camping in Wales; I was showing Phil the wonderful scenery in the country I grew up in. It was the 11th of September and we had heard the terrible news about New York earlier on and had been listening to it all day on the radio. We lay there that night in our little tent, listening to the wind outside and talking about the awful events and I said I couldn’t stop thinking about the people on the planes and what had been going through their minds. Phil turned to me and said, ‘Will you marry me, Kath?’ I almost cried because I’d been waiting for him to ask me since we first met. He told me that he never wanted to lose me and that he would do anything to protect me from the world. I said yes, of course. That’s not the end of the story. We agreed not to tell anyone until I had my ring. A couple of months later, we had finally decided on an engagement ring that we had seen on the web and it arrived by courier early one Saturday morning. I woke up to see Phil on one knee next to the bed. He asked me again if I would ‘do him the honour’ of being his wife and I said yes again (obviously). Then, a couple of weeks ago, I spotted a little crack in the shank of my engagement ring and it had to be sent off for a repair. When it came back, once more, Phil went down on one knee and asked me to marry him. He says he will keep taking every opportunity to ask me until I am his wife. And I will say yes every time he asks me. Not as romantic as a beach or a bridge or any foreign clime, but just as special to me.
