Back in those long-ago days, by which I mean pre-mortgage, pre-child and pre just about everything else I suppose, I finally succumbed to my new wife's pleading and bought her an eternity ring.
Early nineteenth century Victorian old cut solitaire of about two carats - I know, it means nothing to me either.
What I did understand was the price. I think it was about £6,500. A lot of money in 1985, but as I said, we were earning well, and tax free to boot. Since that day she's refused to take it off her finger, not even while mucking out horses.
Yesterday afternoon, as I was watching NCIS my wife squealed a particularly loud wail of utter desperation. 'Alright I'll switch it off.'
Unfortunately she wasn't referring to my TV preferences but to the empty socket of the eternity ring - sans diamond.
This is where an enormous carving knife almost was inserted into my spleen.
'It's insured,' she wept, 'so we shouldn't have any trouble...' that's where she stopped as I, still more interested in Ziva flouncing about the squad room in a particularly fetching outfit, muttered that I'd er, forgotten, to renew the house contents insurance.
If I'd thought the first squeal was loud it was nothing to what followed.
Luckily I'm intact. The insurance process has begun and although my wife still isn't speaking to me she's finally put down that gigantic knife.
Time to reassess my idea of fun.