David O'Mahony: If your daughter makes vomiting noises when you flirt with your wife, that’s a job well done

My last-minute wedding speech won’t win any awards, but after nearly 15 years, one house, three children, and a cast of cats later, I guess it all worked out in the end.

This was not what I’d planned. I had, actually, something of a wedding speech made out already. But cccasionally what’s produced spontaneously under pressure can be vastly superior to what might have emerged with an abundance of time.

I found my wedding speech recently, tucked next to a graphic novel on a shelf in our home office, or “the book room” as one of my sons called it when he was younger.

It has thrills. It has spills. It has humour. It has back stories and sheer, bald flirtation with the woman who, a couple of hours earlier, had become Beloved Wife (and yes, I still call her this). I even remembered to thank everybody which, when you have a room of people looking at you, is no mean feat.

The speech won’t win any awards, handwritten as it is on some loose pages from a reporter’s notebook. A chunk of it seems to be written in shorthand, which, once upon a time, I was actually good at. The rest of the handwriting isn’t even particularly elegant, which is perhaps to be understood, given time constraints.

Reader, it was because I wrote it at the table during dinner.

Reader, I’m pretty sure I was still writing it up to the point where I had to deliver it.

This was not what I’d planned. I had, actually, something of a speech made out already. But when push came to shove — or, perhaps, vows came to vows — it just wasn’t good enough. And, frankly, that was not the time to fall flat on my face in front of friends, family, or, in particular, the bride (who has been known to teach public speaking and debating classes).

Occasionally, just occasionally, what’s produced spontaneously under pressure — positive, in this case — is vastly superior to what might have emerged in a preplanned environment with an abundance of time.

Now, I’m not recommending this as an approach to, say, the development of nuclear fusion or settling in lunar colonies. Nor, to be honest, am I recommending it as an approach to life generally, though it has its merits, and there’s nothing like a deadline to concentrate the mind — those journalism instincts, reinforced by years of getting this publication to the printers on time, will likely never leave me.

And I absolutely, 10,000% would not recommend it as the philosophy behind going on trips with one child, let alone several. Setting out on an excursion without even the most rudimentary of plans when travelling with small people is simply to taunt the forces of elemental chaos. Although life without a touch of chaos is just boring, wouldn't you say?

But with the speech, after nearly 15 years, one house, three children, and a cast of cats later, we can say we’re still going strong — so I guess it all worked out in the end.

Perhaps it was only to be expected, given that the sort of half-shaped plan I had for proposing gave way to a much more fun move of spontaneity. The steps of Kilkenny Castle are, in truth, more memorable than, say, a well-tended garden abroad (no, I did not go on one knee, and no, I did not ask her father for permission — good God, people, it’s the 21st century).

What's your view on this issue?

You can tell us here

Life is what happens when you’re making other plans. Or, rather, it’s what happens in the spaces between your other plans.

Just as how much of what we mean isn’t in what we say, but in what we do or do not do — or in the way we act without an audience, or how we remain champions to people when they’re not in the room — the real texture of living isn’t so much the black-and-white of existence as the patterns between the two.

And it’s easy to get bogged down by either sticking to the plan (as a writer, any time I do an outline, the story eventually goes off the rails on its own mission to tell itself) or in the minutiae that come with never having one. Much as you can’t edit a blank page, you can’t deviate into something potentially better if you don’t cobble together at least the skeleton of an idea. But if you give yourself the time and trust to treat the rules as, well, a bit more like guidelines, you can come out of it with something utterly worthwhile.

One hopes, if one is allowed to do so, that we’ve modelled a progressive, mutually supportive, and positive marriage punctuated with enough flirting and playful teasing to make Daughter, 7, groan. Do you know what you have to do to make a girl who draws love hearts on everything roll her eyes and make vomiting noises? That’s a job well done, there. Certainly the fact that one of her brothers, who is autistic and seldom speaks, insists I give his mother a kiss (oh no, what a terrible fate, whatever will I do?) when I see her and told me: “Good man” over it the other day makes me think we’re doing OK.

And at the end of the day, isn’t your best all you can do?

* David O'Mahony is Irish Examiner assistant editor and a short story writer and novelist