So when are you going to pop the question?

Dan Rookwood is determined to rewrite rules of engagement

Social circles revolve in evolving cycles: 21sts, 30ths, marriages, christenings, divorces, second marriages. At the minute, I am . living in a confusing fusion of Groundhog Day and Four Weddings and Another Bloody Wedding. Every other weekend I put on the same suit and stand in a room with exactly the same people, two of whom are exchanging lifelong vows that will last 12.5 years on average, according to the Australian Bureau of Statistics. Till death to us part. Or a pre-cellulite secretary.

Don’t get me wrong; I used to love weddings. But now I know only too well what to expect. And – apart from a dried out supreme of chicken and an uncomfortable best man’s speech – it is this: “So when are you going to pop the question, Dan?” It’s as if The Question in question is a heavily engorged pimple right in the centre of my forehead; a red alert on their radar of Tedious Small Talk. Clueless commitment-phobe at 2 o’clock. Lock on to target. Launch tactless, sardonic advice. Target’s girlfriend destroyed.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man who has been with the same girl for more than a couple of years must be in want of a good-natured kick up the arse. I have been happily going out with my girlfriend – let’s call her Sam, for that indeed is her name – for the last four years. To anyone who pays too much (i.e. any) attention to social norms, biological clocks, horoscopes or Bridget Jones’s Effing Diary, this makes me either a heartless bastard or a hapless buffoon.

Have I got “commitment issues”? Nope. I’m very committed, both to my girlfriend and to my sense of ownership over my own life. Which is why I won’t be pressured into going weak at the knee and buckling under the pressure of social expectation.

Rather like Bill Murray’s character in the aforementioned Groundhog Day, I’ve recently taken to making up mischievous answers to the inevitable question in order to stop myself from staving in my own cranium with a bottle of standard issue creaky-teeth-sweet pomade. “I was thinking about 2.17pm next Tuesday.” Or “Just as soon as I’ve got rid of this latest bout of genital herpes.” Or (and this one is particularly clever) “Piss off, Mum.”

It’s not that I am anti-marriage, I just not all that “pro” it either. The more people assume and expect me to do something, the more my childishly wilful foot-stomping instincts tell me not to do it. And it’s not because I’m being selfish either. Sam and I fully intend to have kids one day, but she’s only 27 so there’s plenty of tick-tock in her clock yet.

I know it’s warped logic, but when the stats now suggest that roughly half of all marriages end with you divvying up your house, CD collection and kids, I’d rather not take the chance. I want better odds of lifelong happiness than 50:50 before I’ll take a punt on it.

Sam doesn’t much enjoy the constant scrutiny either, even if it is just well-meant default small talk. A few months back she said she’d rather just elope one day and get it done without the fuss. And that is where our recent misunderstanding on holiday began…

With the benefit of 20/20 retrospect, everything now clicks into place and makes sense. But at the time it was as if I was the star of my very own version of Ed TV where everyone but me seemed to know what the real story was.

We were in Bali doing what is called the “Aman experience”: a week of jaw-dropping indulgence split across the island’s three very different but equally stunning and uber-exclusive Aman resorts. I’ve scarcely been to more beautiful places in my life. (For any readers looking for the perfect honeymoon experience, you’d struggle to do better.) So you’d think if we were ever going to elope, this would be ideal. You’d think. Unless you’re me in which case the thought wouldn’t even enter your clueless head.

The three resorts were so quiet and exclusive that there seemed like there were hardly any other people there – just a few dewy-eyed couples who had either just got married, or were about to do so on the beach. And they assumed we were there for the same reason. As did the resorts’ staff. As, it transpired, did Sam.

Being the GQ-educated heteropolitan that I am, I’d booked a surprise for our penultimate night. I’d arranged with the restaurant’s chef to have a specially designed dinner of our favourite food prepared solely for us on the private beach. The path to our table was an avenue of torches, our candlelight was an aromatic fire, the music was the surf that glinted in the moonlight, and naturally we’d dressed up for the occasion. It should have been perfect but Sam was unusually quiet, she was knocking back the champers with no regard for the hotel’s mark-up, and I noticed in the flickering light that she was shaking. No, she wasn’t cold, she said. And then it hit me – more like a Homer Simpson slap to the forehead than a Eureka moment of inspiration – she thought I was about to pop The Question.

So, without thinking it through (because looking back, this could have gone horribly wrong), I got down on one knee, took her hand in mine, looked into her eyes and asked her not to marry me. For the rest of our lives together. To my mixed relief/disappointment, she broke into fits of laughter, threw her arms round my neck and readily agreed. Observing from a professionally discreet distance, our waiter made a fair presumption and brought out another bottle of celebratory Champagne. Now that would be a hell of Groundhog Day…