“Never let the truth get in the way of a good story.” That’s what my grandfather—lovingly called Doppy—always said. But the thing is, the story below is true, and in my not-at-all-biased opinion, it’s a good one. Not just because it has a flair of the dramatic baked in, but because it’s the story of us, of Allison and Alasdair, the series of events which brought us to this life together. If I had to bet on it, Alasdair may have more of the facts straight, but every bit of love I feel for these funny moments is more real than anything I know. I hope you feel it too.

--

It was September and my captivity was over. I had flown into London earlier that week, sleepily admiring the countryside as I made my way to Cambridge. Then, a 3-day waiting period before being allowed to emerge into the common spaces of my hall. A plague was upon us. That’s what I’ll tell future generations, at least.

I’d made myself available in the common area for my flatmates to be able to meet me, like some sort of unadvertised office hours. It was quiet, and I was restless, eventually making my way into the town center instead. Then, hours of exploring, reading, contemplating every detail of my life thus far, and scrolling Instagram later, I heard a fateful creaking. Friends! Surely, these would be new friends!

I grabbed my mug as a pretense and made my way to the kitchen, finding a tall disheveled man holding a mug that said “Bad Ass” on it and a small Kenyan woman who was looking at me skeptically. Even in my attempt to act calm, I enthusiastically introduced myself, saying “Hi, I’m Allison, your new flatmate!” The bearded man spoke first. A combination of his soft Scottish accent and a propensity to mumble meant I could hardly hear him. “Good to meet you, Alan!” I responded after some quick guesswork. He nodded back.

“Not Alan, Alasdair!” the other woman interjected. She looked at him incredulously, the way a mother might look at a son, before introducing herself as Stella. Before I could get any other information, they’d both hurried out of the room. This was off to a good start.

--

Days passed. Coffee shops visited: 8. Cow sightings: 12. Friend count: 0.

--

Soon, my future BBFL (Battle Buddy for Life), Ken, arrived and the skies parted. We went to pubs and ate meat pies and tried all the lukewarm beers at The Eagle in preparation for our theology classes to begin. He told me of his years in the US Army, then in Foreign service, with FEMA, and finally, in ministry. Around the same time, a young law student from India called Tamanna who lived on our floor took me in as well, promising to be my Cambridge tour guide. Once I learned that each excursion ended with Jack’s Gelato, we became fast friends.

With my friend count up to a rousing 2, I felt empowered to break through Alan/Alasdair’s shell. Due to his complete hermit mode, I had the length of a kettle boiling to talk to him. I knew he was part of Jesus College, so I asked him about a jazz concert happening on the green later that day. He muttered that he didn’t know. Click. Kettle done. Conversation over.

It continued like this for the next week or two: my futile attempts at general friendliness, his running in to stir his green beans and promptly leaving. I ate a slice of his birthday cake, which he’d left for all of us to share (separately) and questioned whether to redouble my efforts at friendship once he returned from a trip with his family or just let him be.

--

Then, something miraculous happened. Alasdair came back from his holiday with a smile on his face, a sparkle in his blue-green eyes, a fresh haircut and trimmed beard. He was no longer in the same pair of sweats and I could see his dimples properly for the first time. He started making social plans for groups of us: trips to the wildlife park where he knew every animal, movie nights where he picked a series of films which were somehow perfect for our eclectic mix of tastes, walks around the city at night, where we could talk and dream. He regaled us with stories of his almost accidentally amputated leg; of fishing whisky barrels from the river; of the book he self published as a 14-year-old (which I promptly read); of hilarious friends back home who could send him into fits of laughter with a single sentence. He talked with such sincerity about his family that he brought Tamanna to tears. He acted with such kindness that Ken declared he was the most Christian one out of a floor comprised mostly of ministers. He ate with such gratitude that Stella set aside her famous chapati for him, insisting “her son the doctor” came to meals with new guests.

I’m not sure if I was the last one of the lot of us to fall in love with Alasdair or the first, but I couldn’t go through a conversation with my housemates without some new endorsement of him.

--

Then there was my friendship with Alasdair. The way he offered to buy me root beer from the Lidl that was a 2-mile walk away, how he helped me think through my ethics papers—his extensive knowledge of philosophy, religion, history, and politics a welcome complement to my theological grounding and personal experiences of the divine—and the time he rode the bus with me to the hospital and back so I wouldn’t have to go alone.

I found myself making excuses to go to the kitchen so I could see him. I would grab a nibble of smoked gouda from its package on my embarrassingly empty shelf or accept his offer of a cup of tea even if I’d just finished one. Soon, the cups of tea became glasses of whisky, as we stayed up laughing into the night.

--

By Halloween, I was sure. Sure that I liked him, that I wanted to be with him. This was sealed by his doing the unexpected and accepting my request to help us prank Stella. We stood giggling with Tamanna and Ken behind the corner as we watched Stella’s reaction of horror turn to fervent laughter and delight. We had been spending every day together, and I was beyond smitten.

--

By Thanksgiving, I could not have been more unsure. Weeks had passed, his thesis defense finished, formal dinners with friends and long walks alone surely something more… but were they? He had extended his lease (promising!) but hadn’t asked me out (confusing!) so I decided to take a day away.

I showed up at my friend Kim’s flat in London around 10am to start preparations for her expat Thanksgiving dinner. We made charcuterie boards and finger foods galore, welcoming people in the early afternoon. The party was like one of those one room plays where the set never changes, but everything else does. We were in the moment, and yet Alasdair’s name was never far from my lips.

As it turns out, he was thinking of me too. But with a lot more inner turmoil, as the text he’d sent just after 10am had gone entirely unanswered. Meanwhile, I was telling rooms of strangers about the flecks of gold in his piercing eyes and the way he turns bright red when he’s embarrassed. As I rushed to catch one of the last trains home, I checked my phone. It was after 10pm, and Alasdair’s unseen message hit me in the gut. He had asked me out. To coffee. And the market. And I had missed it.

My response was apologetic and earnest, insisting we get lunch the next day. He agreed but was feeling a bit sick by then—not love sick, I hope!—and thus, our first official* date was at Wetherspoons. I thought he might faint at any moment and I doubted it was because of my unmatched beauty. We Christmas shopped after, getting decorations for the Wesley House kitchen as he planned to cook us all a proper holiday meal before leaving for Scotland. Tamanna and Ken joined us in the merriment, stringing up garlands and lights as my rudolph nose periodically flashed. Alasdair and I got our first picture together—a wonderful, ridiculous thing—and then went our separate ways.

--

The rest of the week carried on as usual. Well, aside from the increasingly present sense that a missed message would end up as a missed opportunity at love.

--

On Friday, I took fate into my own hands. And almost completely fumbled it.

Ken and I went to the pub, as was fairly typical. We got a few rounds, I shared my current quandary, and if I’m not mistaken, there was a spirited pep talk in there somewhere. Whether it was for me, from me, or both, I will never be sure.

When we laughed our way back to Wesley House, I found Alasdair in the kitchen. We shared a drink, and while we tidied up, I shared a secret. “I know I’m kind of friendly, so it’s hard to tell when I’m flirting with someone. But sometimes, I really mean it.” I paused, then continued. “Like for instance,” I told the back of his head, “I’m definitely flirting with you.”

Silence. Brief, but horrible. Followed by some quip about the book he’s going to write about me.

Then, not a minute later, he declares, “I’m gonna call it,” to which I understandably replied “It’s 8pm! You’re calling it?” and he goes “Yup,” and then effectively runs away. I wish I could say I have never been so embarrassed in my life, but that hardly makes the top five.

--

The next morning, I’m plotting my temporary escape to the seaside when I run into Ken in the kitchen. He’s locked himself out of his room, and his phone is inside. One guess which good samaritan is helping him track down the locksmith?

I escape for a croissant and coffee, and when I return with them, Alasdair is at the kitchen table, looking up at me. I make painful small talk before finally saying, “Hey, sorry if I was a little more silly than usual last night…” No hesitation, he replies, “You mean when you said you were flirting with me?” I laughed at his bluntness, “Yep, that’s the one.” His expression softened. “No, I should be the one apologizing, because the thing is, I have been too. Flirting with you, that is.” I was dumbstruck. “Oh, well that’s good news,” I managed. Then, before I know it, he leaned across the table and kissed me! Right on the lips! His eyes were fixed on mine as he said, “I hope that clears things up.”

It was without fail the smoothest thing any person has ever done in the history of romance.

--

Two weeks later, I was on a plane home for Christmas and he was on a bus back up to Scotland for the foreseeable future. We decided to do this, to give our relationship a real chance. He started looking for jobs all over the world (including Atlanta!). I had plans to stay with him and his parents when I returned in January. We said I love you, and we meant it. I sat on the sleepy coach headed towards the airport and knew I was leaving with much more than I came with.

--

Coffee shops visited: 19. Cow sightings: At least 100. Friend count: 11. Love of my Life: 1. ❤️

--

*our first date has been disputed since the start, as Alasdair insists it was the lovely Pho restaurant we went to the night of our kiss, and I say 'Spoons for sure

I was three months out from completing my gruelling PhD, and had been told my lease would not be renewed. I therefore had to move all my stuff to new accommodation, a massive inconvenience as I tried to juggle last-minute experiments and writing a 200-page thesis. Little did I know that this move would change my life immeasurably, and propel it in an entirely unexpected, joyful and loving direction.

I had barely unpacked my boxes when Allison moved onto my floor. I had just shared a coffee with Stella Mwiti, a wonderful middle-aged Kenyan woman who (out of pity for me, I’m sure!) had decided she would become a second mother to me. Allison was a ray of sunshine as soon as she entered the room. I could tell immediately, from her broad grin and smiling eyes, that she was an American, from one of the warmer states. I immediately found her attractive but, thinking I would be moving back to Scotland fairly imminently, I didn’t allow myself to think that our paths would cross significantly. When Allison introduced herself, I mumbled my response (you would have thought that living in England for four years would have taught me to tone down my accent!).

“Oh, Alan? Pleased to meet you, Alan!” Allison greeted enthusiastically.

“Yes, pleased to meet you too,” I muttered, thinking I would correct her later, once I’d returned to my thesis and written a difficult paragraph that had been bugging me all morning.

“Not Alan, it’s Alasdair!” Stella exclaimed, making sure her son was understood.

It was a rather inauspicious start…

****

Fast-forward two weeks and I’d handed in my thesis. I showered. I shaved. I got my hair cut. I ate something other than pasta. I was a new man. The sun felt brighter. The grass looked greener. The birds sounded chirpier.

With this new lease of life, I had to make up for lost time. One of my first ideas was to suggest a zoo trip. So Allison, Tamanna (a newly-qualified Indian lawyer living on our floor who could give Allison a run for her money in any talking competition) and I visited Shepreth Wildlife Centre together. Somehow (SOMEHOW?!) Allison kept it together when we saw the capuchin monkeys swinging from their ropes and branches. She was trying to play it cool, not wanting to reveal her love (obsession?) with monkeys. Now I know her so much better, I’m in total awe at how she managed to hide that from me in those early days (although having said that, her and Tamanna did get a photo with a gorilla statue; I should have read the signs).

The moment when I knew I wanted to ask Allison out was Halloween 2021. Her and Tamanna had decided to play a prank on Stella, by playing a demonic voice and planting the recording in the kitchen. I wanted no part of it – I was afraid of my adopted mother, neither wanting to displease her nor incur her wrath. But the way Allison went about it all was just so...fun! I think her mischievous side really shone through as her and Tamanna set up that prank. Also, that night she wore a very short shirt – I think that helped too!

****

All that said, there was the small matter of me having to defend my thesis, on 15th November. I resolved to ask Allison out after that, and extended my lease up to 15th December, should it go anywhere. In hindsight, that was a pretty bold move!

Before that, there was one other memorable incident. Allison and her battle-buddy, Ken Rathje, a 50-odd year-old US army veteran with the heart and wanderlust of a 21-year-old, were going to a Ball organised by the Cambridge Clay Pigeon Shooting, Polo and Fox-Hunting Societies. As a working-class Scot, who’d been brought up to hate the very people who’d be going to this ball, and with a very good idea of what they’d be like, I’d had to bite my tongue very hard. Nevertheless, I got to see Allison in her beautiful black dress as she prepared to go, and was even entrusted to take a few photos. She looked stunning.

****

The defence went well – a truly pleasant experience with two academics I greatly respected – and I’d just celebrated over a pint in The Eagle with an old friend, Dan Lentell, and was about to enter Wesley House when I heard a voice calling from across the street.

“Well, if it isn’t Dr Keith?”

It was Allison! Just the person I’d wanted to see. Her beam shone so brightly.

She offered a congratulation, and we walked in together. That night, we shared a bottle of rum in the kitchen. Others drifted in and out, all offering their congratulations. But Allison and I were the nucleus. It was a wonderful night.

A few days later, I finally plucked up the courage to ask Allison out. Terrified of rejection, and with Brits naturally being a bit more reticent than Americans, I thought I’d do this in a rather casual, somewhat opaque way.

By this time, Allison had cultivated a reputation as a speedy responder to messages, both in group chats and privately. At 10am that Saturday, I sent a message, “Fancy a daunder down to the market?” Daunder is Scottish slang for a short, walk or amble, which has a mild romantic subtext. I was pulling out the big guns.

But I waited. And waited. And waited….and waited…………..and waited. Then, as the day went on, I began to lose more and more hope. How had I read the signs so wrong? I’d really thought she was into me.

It was about 11pm when Allison eventually replied. It had felt like an eternity. She suggested we do something the next day. Thinking she might just be taking pity on me after a harsh no throughout the day, I suggested a rather neutral activity of a light lunch and then Christmas shopping for our shared kitchen. In some ways, that suggestion was a success. We had a very nice day together. Although I think it just made things even more confused between us!

****

Eventually, I think Allison became impatient with the confusion. Now I know she is used to people being more forward (again, this is one of the main differences between the UK and US). After a night out at the pub with Ken, she came back to the kitchen, where I was washing my dishes, and literally told me she was flirting with me.

I was slightly alarmed. I mean, I was pleased with the sentiment. But I couldn’t let myself believe she wasn’t drunk. I had to make my excuses. I didn’t want to take advantage of someone when they were vulnerable.

I tried to be as polite as I could with my response. It was a fine line – validating what had just been said, whilst also trying to breeze past it. I DO NOT think I succeeded. I then announced I was turning in for the night, which was slightly comical as it was only about 8.30.

Once back in my room, I phoned my brother immediately, to ask him:

“Martin, what exactly does it mean when a woman tells you she’s literally flirting with you?”

The response: “Alasdair, you’re an idiot.”

****

The rest of that night, I wanted to speak to Allison, but I kept on missing her in the kitchen (no doubt because she was trying to avoid me!). Eventually, giving up, I went on a VERY long walk around Cambridge. It’s a pretty city at night, especially in late-November. The old brick houses look almost Dickensian. The college quads look Shakespearian. But all I could think of was Allison.

****

The next day, Ken came to the rescue. He’d locked himself out his room, and left his phone in there. I therefore had to phone security for an extra set of keys, and the two of us waited and chatted in the kitchen. I was therefore there all morning, so Allison couldn’t really avoid me. Eventually, she appeared, and Ken made a judicious exit. My heart was pounding, especially as Allison came to sit at the table, just round the corner from me. We could hardly look at one another. Her eyes were sparkling, as they often do, but I think this time it was mainly fear.

“About last night, and what I said…” she tentatively began.

“When you said you were flirting with me?” I asked, making sure we were talking about the same thing.

“Yes, I’m sorry about that.”

“No, I’m the one who should be apologising to you,” I said gently. “Because, you know, I’ve been doing the same with you.”

Allison looked up, into my eyes, for the first time since she’d first entered the room. Her eyes were still sparkling.

I thought to myself, this is it. You must show her how you really feel.

So I reached across the table and kissed Allison on her lips.

“I hope that clears things up for you,” I said.

It’s probably the smoothest thing I’ve ever said or done.

I’ve never looked back.

Indeed, Allison makes me look forward to every day.

Allison, we both took risks at the start of this relationship. But ‘I feel like we fell out of a lucky tree, hit every branch on the way down, and ended up in a pool full of cash and Sour Patch Kids.’

I can’t believe how lucky I am to be marrying you, the love of my life. My soulmate.