A friend’s husband proposed via a full-page advertisement in Cleo magazine. Another was surprised during a stroll along the banks of the Yarra when, amongst the buskers and street artists there was a painting with her name on it, and the words ‘will you marry me?’
This week in Sydney, a Qantas passenger gave sixty of his fellow passengers a single white rose to deliver to his girlfriend in the arrivals lounge, before he emerged with a red rose and a ring.
And then there are the romantic flash-mobbers, sky-writers, crop-circlers, film-makers and Craig Jones – who deserves a category all to himself for spending $9000 on possibly the most elaborate wedding proposal ever, involving thousands of onlookers, choreographed dancers and a 140-piece high school marching band.
My husband proposed on the couch at home, when he could get a word in edgewise during my post-work monologue after a particularly stressful day. I looked exactly the opposite of how a woman should look when she is proposed to: cartoon-print flannelette PJ bottoms, ugh boots, tailored work shirt and costume jewellery. (You know how sometimes you slip into only half of something more comfortable? I’d done that.)
I’m not sure why the candlelit dinner that he’d slaved over or the glass of Moet in my hand hadn’t tipped me off that this was no ordinary evening. Perhaps it’s because we’d been standing under the Eiffel Tower only a few weeks earlier, following a French friend’s wedding at a chateau in Normandy – and, even with a backdrop like that, the opportunity had passed him by…
With us, it had not been a case of love at first sight. The opposite, if anything – I thought he was an arrogant git. He made the mistake of ordering me around in front of a table full of VIPs once and I was so annoyed that a response escaped my mouth before my Inner Professional could put a stop to it.