Half-decent proposal

For weeks I had been planning the perfect night out to 'pop the question' to Adele, my wife to be. I'd carefully chosen the occasion - exactly one year to the day after we'd first met - and picked a top restaurant for a romantic, candlelit dinner for two. I had chosen a gorgeous emerald engagement ring and dropped a few hints into conversations over the previous week. I was even going to risk getting out of my wheelchair to go down on one knee - although whether I'd be able to make it back up again afterwards was another matter entirely.

What could possibly go wrong?

Well firstly, considering that I'm a stand-up comedian, my timing that evening left a hell of a lot to be desired. It just so happened that our anniversary fell on a Sunday, which was the chef's night off at the posh restaurant I'd chosen. So instead of a candlelit supper for two, we ended up with a 'bar snack'. Doesn't quite have the same finesse, does it?

Then there was the bloody annoying waiter. The minute he clapped eyes on Adele and I - a pair of cripples out on the town - he sized us both up on the spot and decided that she seemed to have the least amount of things wrong with her. So from that moment onwards he completely ignored my presence and spoke only to her.

This waiter also had a gift for appearing at all the wrong moments. Whenever I smoothly manoeuvred the conversation round to marriage territory, he'd materialise out of nowhere to interrupt me mid-sentence, inflicting yet another round of patronising questions about my abilities on poor Adele. I swear, every time my hand reached for that ring in my pocket, I'd hear in my left ear something along the lines of:

"Can he sit on a normal chair, or is he staying in the wheelchair?"

"Is he on medication, or can he have alcohol?"

"Can he use a knife and fork, or does he need his food cut up for him?"

Let me assure you that nothing quite puts a dampener on a quiet, romantic evening for two than someone with such a patronising attitude, who won't take a hint, spewing endless streams of condescending drivel at you.

To cap it all, he even got my order wrong by bringing me meat lasagne instead of seafood lasagne, which I couldn't eat as I'm a pescetarian - that's a vegetarian who eats fish, in case you're not familiar with the term. We pescetarians are kind of like the bisexuals of the cuisine world, partaking of a little from column A and a little from column B. Rather fish - not fowl. But ever since it was scientifically proven that fish actually can feel pain after all, both carnivores and 'proper' vegetarians have begun ruthlessly taking the mickey out of us.

Needless to say, however, the bloody waiter was less than sympathetic to my dietary requirements, and our ensuing argument well and truly quashed any hope of popping the question to Adele that night.

You'll be glad to know that I eventually plucked up the courage to propose a few days later after a work's night out, when we had both had a few drinks and were rather worse for wear. It may not have been the perfect romantic event that I'd planned, but at least there was no patronising git there to keep interrupting.