Everybody needs a hero

Today I'm going to tell you a tall tale about a little known superhero, although the tale isn't tall it is certainly true and worthy of a place on every comic book shop display shelf. It's a triumphant story of true love beating all the odds, tears, happiness and playing guitar down the phone. What is most exciting is that the story is only in it's first few chapters, what is yet to come for our hero and what monsters will he have to defeat to defend his one and only true love?
I am of course lovingly referring to the very handsome curly haired blue eyed boy that is Mark, my wonderful husband and often referred to as SuperMark.

Before I got ill comic book references and homages to certain superheroes were a common theme within our home from the combination of Mark's endless comic book collections and my childhood love of Christopher Reeve and everything Superman - sadly I have to admit  that I was one of those little girls who dreamt of a hero to rescue her, treat her like a princess and make her feel safe forever.
This silly form co-dependance continued into adulthood, not so much as a weakness, but  more of a anticipation that something or someone would be able to aspire to my dream. Endless cringeworthy dates and probably high expectations left me bored, humiliated or comfortless and not once did I see a hint of blue and red hiding underneath their shirt.
Then one day in August 2001 I was at an open audition for a job at the York Dungeon.. There amongst the crowds of potential Dick Turpin's and medieval bar maids was a skinny, oddly dressed boy with blonde hair tied back (yes tied back) a blue shirt that was too big for him and black jeans. I can't say that that was the moment I knew, but for some reason, in that dark and musty room normally allocated for overcharged crowds of eager tourists, he stood out and I remembered him more so than anything else that day. A trivial memory imprinted for an unknown reason that would end up lasting a lifetime. Mark of course, ever the romantic that he is, doesn't remember me at all that day and for a long time refused to believe I was even there. His first memory of me is 3 months later, after not getting a job alongside him and my housemate, I came home to a group of drunk York dungeon workers sat in my living room, Mark (again with the romanticism) remembers me dressed in the knee high boots and short skirt.

Anyway enough of the early memories! We spent a year together and parted amicably at the end of university always staying in touch and remaining good friends.



The first rescue:
I had returned to York after 6 months of working in Edinburgh and was just escaping the dregs of a dreadful relationship, my solace? The comfort of a old friend called Mark at the end of the phone in London, who'd play guitar and sing badly down the phone to me at 11pm at night in a comic effort to get me to go to sleep. Within a month, he'd left his job, his flat, sent his belongings to his parents, packed a bag and was sleeping on our wonderful friend Alex Finlayson couch in order to be with me. The rest as they say, is history. 
The 2nd rescue:
Only when times are at there hardest do you truly realise how much you adore your one true love. Those moments of happiness at the developing stages of a relationship, when you are starting to realise that it really could be something, when you get engaged or move in together are hugely overridden by actions of a partner to get you through the darkest, blackest of days you've yet encountered in your life.  Committing to a loved one during a serious illness can be the ultimate test for a relationship, ultimately denying all their own needs to focus on their partner. For this hero it was without question what needed to be done. Going to work early, to leave early, to go to the hospital to see me and get home at 8.30pm every day for 3 weeks, to swoop in and pick up clumps of hair off the floor before I saw and got upset, to winch me out of the bath and off the toilet, to empty endless bowls of vomit, dress me, brush my hair and stroke my unrecognisable, swollen face and tell me how beautiful I am.  At the worst point, the first morning lying in critical care wired to every machine possible and knowing Mark had gone to work that morning not having a clue what had happened overnight,  I opened my eyes and as if by magic, over the ridge of of my oxygen mask, comic in hand and looking serious and concerned, I could see my hero.
No amount of gratitude can repay the debt I owe to my SuperMark, I am indeed the luckiest girl in the world to have him, knowing to my core that he will look after me for the rest of my life. An unconventional superhero he may be but, how many other girls can say they've been rescued twice?