Letter to my Husband

Eleven years ago tomorrow:

The church was full, but I don’t remember any faces. Dad had my arm and I could see you, standing at the front. You were fiddling with your waistcoat (‘grooms wear gold’ said the guy at Moss Bros). You were making a joke, but I could tell you were nervous.

I don’t remember what I walked down to the aisle to. I don’t remember signing the register or exchanging the rings. I remember grinning: both of us thinking ‘this is bonkers!’ Trying to hold every moment to remember later, but then getting swept up in the rush of it; the giddiness of champagne and glee.

Trying to act calm, but holding your hand tight. The feel of the ring: heavy, but safe. Being really, really glad that you were there. My best friend. And now – something else.

The blur of photos and speeches. Praying you wouldn’t make any sex jokes – then laughing till my face ached. Hitching up my dress to dance and losing my shoe. The jazz band and the heady scent of roses and my sister, dancing with dad and falling over. A room filled with people I love: gratitude for each one.

The taxi drive to the hotel. Mr and Mrs Scrivener. Grown-ups now: but giggling like kids.

Swans on the lake in the moonlight. Watching the sunrise in our matching dressing gowns. BLT sandwiches from room service.

Best. Day. Ever.

Thank-you, Lord – and thank-you, Glen.