An example book, every page

Dev and Siobhan

Melbourne, Australia, 1999 to today. The occasion: her 50th birthday. Fourteen memories, written as a love note from Dev to Siobhan and painted from their photos. This is the whole book, cover to last page, as it prints.

Who they are

Twenty-seven years in Northcote: a shared umbrella in the rain, cards with his grandmother, a ring on a squeaking beach, a lemon tree planted behind a weatherboard house, and Biscuit the red kelpie.

The honest part

Dev and Siobhan are an invented couple. We wrote their answers and made their photos ourselves to show you what a finished book looks like. Every page here was then written and painted by the same process a real order goes through, including the cover change a customer can ask for, and nothing was drawn by hand.

Our story begins
March 1999, a tram stop on Brunswick Street in Fitzroy, pouring rain. I was twenty-one with one umbrella, when along came you: twenty-two, three weeks off the plane from Galway, no coat and a paper bag of groceries going soft. I held it over you and got soaked down one side. We talked until the 112 came.
A week later you returned with a homemade lemon cake. You said you came back for the umbrella. I knew better.
Page 1 of 14
The first date
There we were in line at the Queen Victoria night market, the aroma of dumplings and spices filling the air. We balanced paper trays piled high with the little parcels, chatting and laughing as we made our way through the bustling stalls. No fancy restaurant for us, just the simple joy of sharing something new.
Just as we reached Southbank, the heavens opened again, proper Irish-style rain pounding down. I looked at you, you looked at me, and in unison: "Blast, no umbrella!"
Page 2 of 14
When I fell for you
Midnight, Diwali 2001. I wandered into the kitchen of my parents' Dandenong house, drawn by the warm glow spilling from under the door. There you were, across the table from my grandmother, playing rummy. She was cheating blatantly, her chuckles giving her away, and you were letting her, your own laughter echoing in the small room.
No common language, yet a bond unspoken was clear. The next morning she told me, in Malayalam, to marry you. I knew already.
Page 3 of 14
Squeaky Beach
The morning sun painted the sky in soft hues as we walked along Squeaky Beach, before anyone else was on the sand. I'd carried this tiny treasure in my pocket for three days of camping. My heart pounded against my ribs like a drum announcing a king's arrival.
I asked standing up, Shiv, because kneeling there squeaks, and then I knelt anyway. I opened my hand: a thin gold ring, one small green stone. You said yes, then "same tram."
Page 4 of 14
Thirty-eight degrees
Thirty-eight degrees it was, the sun high and hungry, but we didn't feel the heat. Your mum flew from Galway with both your sisters, and mine cooked for eighty in a kitchen built for four. You were a vision in a short cream dress and green shoes; I was in a grey suit, no jacket by two o'clock.
The girls sang, and my father, a man I thought had no rhythm in his bones, danced. In the gardens at Abbotsford Convent, in the laughter and the music, we became us.
Page 5 of 14
The house in Northcote
I remember the day we moved into our weatherboard house in Northcote. It felt like coming home, even as we carried in boxes. That week you knelt in the backyard, the tiny lemon tree trembling in your hands, and nestled it in, packing earth around it. "You'll like it here," you murmured.
Now, every time I see it, its leaves rustling, its fruit a bright yellow promise, I'm back there. The roots of our love, reaching down, growing deep.
Page 6 of 14
Irish for the dog
Would you believe it, Shiv? The mutt understands you! Biscuit perked up the moment you started in Irish. There we were, in the kitchen, you midway through some story, and Biscuit sat. She sat, like she was hanging on your every word!
I've been asking her to sit in English for weeks, and she'd rather chase her tail than pay me any mind. But you open your mouth, and suddenly she's your eager student. Biscuit's got good taste, I suppose.
Page 7 of 14
Biscuit comes home
June 2019 arrived, bringing with it a new chapter for us. At the rescue, a bright red kelpie caught my eye. She was two, curious, with a glint I couldn't resist.
When the volunteer brought her out, she jumped up on you, her tail wagging a mile a minute. You laughed, scratching behind her ears as she licked your face. You two bonded instantly, like you'd known each other for years. I knew right then Biscuit was meant to be ours.
Page 8 of 14
Five o'clock walks
The days blurred together in that long winter of 2020. You'd come home from your shifts at the Mercy too tired to talk. I'd look up from my laptop, teaching physics to thirty faces at the kitchen table. Five kilometres and one hour a day.
But at five o'clock sharp, we'd clip on Biscuit's lead and step out into whatever weather dared to greet us. She'd bound ahead along Merri Creek, tail high. Your hand in mine, our breath misting, we'd walk.
Page 9 of 14
An ordinary Sunday
We start early, at Preston Market, the stalls still misty, for vegetables and a bag of the good bread. Then coffee at the place on High Street, the one where they know Biscuit's name before yours. We take the long loop around Merri Creek, Biscuit bounding ahead off the lead.
At seven you ring your mum in Galway. I settle in with the crossword and pretend not to listen, but I can hear your voice, soft and full of love.
Page 10 of 14
Still the most alive
You know what I noticed about you today? As you walked in with a cup of coffee for me, I felt that familiar warmth. It's the same feeling I got when I first saw you at that tram stop in Fitzroy, talking to a stranger while it poured around us.
You said I looked like someone who would give you his umbrella and then apologise for the rain. You were right. You're still the most alive person I know.
Page 11 of 14
Porch light and Cranberries
On parent-teacher night, I walk up to our house to find the porch light already aglow, even on summer evenings when the sun's still up, welcoming me home like a loyal sentry.
After dinner, there's the rush of water, and then there it is: the same Cranberries song you've hummed every single night for twenty-seven years. I hear it, clear as the clinking of the glasses, and it never fails to make this warmth bloom in my chest.
Page 12 of 14
Same tram
As I sit here across from you in this bustling restaurant, I can't help but grin. Your eyes sparkle with mischief. We got the last park right outside, so I lean in, raise an eyebrow, and say it. "Same tram, Shiv."
You laugh, that sound that's been my favourite melody for twenty-seven years. "Same tram," you reply. We clink glasses, and the luck that brought us from that rainy tram stop to this table feels like a tangible thing.
Page 13 of 14
Fifty, Shiv
Fifty today, and still as vibrant as the day a soaked, shivering version of you stepped off a tram in Fitzroy and into my life. Twenty-seven years ago, you could've caught the next one back to Galway. But you stayed, and for that choice I'm forever grateful.
That lemon cake you baked, a thank you for my brolly, was the sweetest deal I ever made. Here's to a lifetime more, you magnificent woman. Happy birthday, mo chroí.
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