Our Christmas tree

We have such a silly little Christmas tree and I love it so much. It’s spindly and uneven, and pressed up against the radiator, because our flat is small, and does not readily accommodate trees. We bought it from the park around the corner, where a cheerful man who clearly cared a lot about Christmas trees took us to the “imperfect” pile, and told us that this one was “nearly perfect”, and that he didn’t know why it was in this pile, and so we paid for it and took it home. I refused to let them use the plastic machine to wrap up the tree, and Adam walked the 6 minutes home with needles in his ears and face, while I apologised, but didn’t carry it. 

We’d never had Christmas with our cat before, and given her tendency to trot along radiators and topple chairs, we assumed a tree would never last. So we stuck it in a stand, draped it in lights, hung it with three tentative baubles and waited. It’s January last now, and she’s not done anything more aggressive than drink from the stand, and we’ve not bothered with any more baubles. Our tree is nude and spare. Perhaps next year it will be more gaudy or maybe we’ll continue to treat it like one of our many houseplants. 

I am sad about the end of Christmas, because it made our neighbourhood feel warm again. Each evening, walking home, I’d see more windows lit with trees and lights and tinsel, even as I newly observe the strong locks on those windows, and the alarms at the edges of the panes. The more beautiful the decoration, the more pronounced the security. You have to protect what you love. 

Soon – hours, not days – it will be January. I will become vegan for a period of time. Last year, my veganism trickled over into February before stilton saw its collapse, and I’d like to try for that again. I read a blog recently about someone who decided to stop drinking, and was only able to do it by not setting herself deadlines: by simply stopping, and seeing when she started again. I have always been a deadlines driven person. I need to be able to see the end before I can even contemplate crossing the start. It has worked for me, in terms of achieving things, like months dry of booze, or races run, but perhaps it’s just testament to the fact that I’m still really 14 years old, sitting in the front seat of English class, desperate to impress. 

Yesterday I booked flights for New Zealand for a very old friend’s wedding, and so that feels like a deadline too – in four months time, I will see sunshine, I will see family and old friends, I will celebrate love, I will take a break. Deadlines and having something to look forward to are ultimately the same thing; an end to difficulty and the promise of reward. 

I don’t even know how you are supposed to get rid of a Christmas tree in this country. In one flat, we had a fake tree, that we neglected to take down for several years. Other flats have been too small to spare even a corner; and other Christmases I have spent in New Zealand under pohutukawa blossom. I know how people in this country resort to getting rid of Christmas trees, because I’ve seen them, stripped and abandoned on street corners, a sad and decidedly unfestive pine graveyard. It feels like a very ignominious way to get rid of our under-decorated signpost to the season.  

I’m going into 2020 with resolutions, some big and some small. I’m usually pretty good at achieving them. It’s the deadlines thing. It doesn’t matter who imposes them, as long as they are imposed. I’ll put them here for posterity:

  1. Submit my book to 3 agents. It’s written and rewritten, and rewritten again. The query letter is done. It’s time to cast it off. 
  2. Run a 10k in under an hour. Last year, I resolved to run 3 10K races, with no determination on time. I ran the last one in 1 hour, 1 minute and 1 second. 
  3. Do one piece of home improvement. There are so many things we could do with our little chunk of London. Paint. Bash down the useless brick barbeque. We’ve lived here for 18 months and it can’t count as new any more. Time to get handy. 

There are always other ones, of course. I want to read over 50 books, I’d like to run at least 4 races. It might be time to delete Twitter off my phone. But they can go on a secondary list.

WhatsApp Image 2019-12-31 at 11.16.16

2009 – 2019

I think I became a real person in this decade. I don’t know who I was at 21, other than a person with most of a law degree and very red hair; someone who drank a lot of cheap vodka and had a lot of opinions about cheese, but not much else. She was ready to be told who to be, stepping in out of moulds to try them for size. She was turning in circles, chasing shadows. 

This is the first decade I feel properly cognisant of the beginning and of the end, ten years bottled and stoppered. I can see the entrance and exit, ten years of travelling and learning and making decisions. At the end of it, these last few days, I know who I want to be. A harder worker and a better boss. A more interesting person and a kinder friend. I know my shortcomings deeply. I have become friends with them. I hold them close as evidence of change. I line them up and count them. 

In this decade I graduated, and moved away. 2020 is 10 years of living away from home, 2 in Japan and 8 in London. I woke up on cold mornings on the 11th floor to the sound of crows, and in ground floor flats to the sound of bottles smashing. I have seen cherry trees in bloom on both sides of the world. I have lost important things, as well as had them taken from me. I have done much less than I thought I would, and much more at the same time. 

I don’t know when you get to decide that you have become an adult, as if there is a line that you cross, a waving flag. I walk backwards and forwards across that line week to week, when I make smart decisions and take them back, and dumb decisions, and work to correct them. It will never cease to amaze me how quickly you can undo progress, and how satisfying small gains can be. 

During the last summer of this decade I stood in front of a fireplace clad in tulle, hand in hand with the man I love, and made him my husband. That was an adult decision, and a real one, and one that didn’t feel adult at all, as I laughed, and shot the contents of my nose onto my vows, as we pushed rings onto fingers in unfamiliar movements. No one tells you to practice those small things. Putting a ring on a finger in front of a crowd of 80 attentive friends and family is no joke. 

I have described 2019 as a difficult year. There was sickness, and loss. I have learnt to feel less safe in my house and in my own head. I have put things into perspective, and lost that perspective, and tried hard to gain it back. I have put myself in other people’s shoes, and then struggled to take them off again. It’s not easy to live in a world where everyone wants to debate, where argument is expected, when that kind of clash of conversation makes you want to retreat, and bury your head. 

I still remember who I was when I moved to London. I lived in the attic room of my godmother’s beautiful house, and ordered clothes from ASOS to figure out who I was: the person who wore a muted pink anorak, or a strapless black top adorned with a heart. Was I someone who worked in publishing, or in a bar, or at any job at all, pulled at random, with desperation, from amongst the strangely-worded listings on Gumtree? I didn’t know whether I lived north or south of the river, or what that kind of division might mean to a London-personality, an externally-judged person. I was clinging to the strings of someone I had read about in books and wanted to recognise in myself. She strode across the Heath. She had friends who wrote, and wrote herself. She was beautiful and mysterious and eminently cosmopolitan. She was very unfamiliar, and she certainly didn’t have a New Zealand accent. 

I have learned that it is possible to both love and loathe yourself. Arrogance and humility can exist back to back, two sides of an incompatible coin, spinning on an edge, and falling either way depending on the slightest thing: overheard praise, or a glance in a mirror; a rejection, an invitation, an answer. You are allowed to have faith in yourself, even if that faith is in your inability to achieve anything. You can be both reliable and absent. 

I am both of those things to everyone I love. I am learning to be more former than latter, and learning, too, that you cannot be present to everyone at all times. They say, when someone tells you who you are, believe them. And I have learned to be that to myself: to tell myself, you are kind, you are worthy, you are full of possibility. 

It’s not all introspection and beautiful moments in tulle. There is getting a cat, and learning what it is like to be responsible for a life. A cat is not a baby, or a person, but a cat is a stage. Getting a cat is the same as saying to yourself and your partner, we can do this. We are able to be selfless for a thing. Now I track kitty litter through our small house on my bare feet as I say to myself, I am an adult. I scoop small bits of shit into the toilet. I squeeze out pouches of fish. I watch her bite into the skin of my wrist. This is the smallest, easiest, fluffiest bit of being an adult. 

I watch my friends in awe. I watch one passionate human pour herself out on social media for a political cause, and watch it burn. Another gets onstage with an ex she loved and loathed, and tells an audience how much they loved each other, and how much they hurt each other. One moves away from a long relationship that nearly broke her. Another leans into one that lets her relax. They get promotions, they write books, they run marathons, they cook, and plan, and love. 

With each year that passes, I grow closer to my family. By the time I die we will be one being, one mind operating many hands and hearts. I have learned to be grateful for exactly what I have, and who they are. Blood is thick; I am up to my elbows in it, and I am ready to be submerged. I was always my mother, just as she was always hers.

Time is a stupid thing. I didn’t enter this ten year period as one kind of person, and exit it another. You cannot wake up on January 1st born again. But we do it anyway, these arbitrary divisions and chunks, as if they mean anything other than a declaration of possibility. 

There is something in a beginning. There is something in an ending. You can change any time, but it’s easier to do it when everyone is telling you, change. Now is your moment. When this firework burns and the song is sung, turn in a circle, and look to the heavens, and tell anyone who will listen who you are going to be this year.

I don’t spend any time in Marylebone anymore

I don’t spend any time in Marylebone anymore. London is so large that when you live somewhere, or work somewhere, that corner of the city becomes the only place you know well. I lived in Marylebone for three years, which meant I spent a lot of time running around or walking through Regent’s Park. I knew the shit that lined the ponds, and the birds responsible. I knew how close I could run to a goose without being attacked. I knew where the daffodils came in first, and where I would run past puppies and boot camps and people seeking Pokemon off the paths. At some times of the year there would be sculpture exhibitions around the park, and so I knew to avoid the crowds of people and the strange and ominous iron men who rose up from the grass. Sculpture exhibitions in parks always seem to involve looming metal silhouettes, crouched over guns or holding hands with children, crumpled or standing; as if the parks themselves didn’t already house enough shadowed men. 

You don’t consider yourself restricted to one section of the city, but it works out that way. When you wake up on a Sunday morning, there’s rarely the compulsion to duck underground onto a tube filled with hot familiar air, and surface somewhere strange, or at least, not for me. I like to go to places I have been before, along familiar canal routes or cut-throughs. Or I like to explore an area in increasing circles, going further afield with each passing season, to try out another pub, or cafe, or park. You could spiral your way out from the centre for a decade, and never get anywhere near the outskirts. There is always another dark-wood pub with a double-noun name and wooden tables on the footpaths and a cat that lurks behind the bar. There is always another beautiful crescent with red front doors and bright-leaved trees. You will always find another small shop selling old books to young people. In Marylebone, turned towards Edgware Road, I would always find myself on a road that started with expensive antiques, windows filled with gilt pineapples and strange low chairs, then tipped over into wide-windowed butchers and canvas topped stalls selling sneakers with fake branding. Cheap backs onto poor; jewellery onto canvas bags. 

Where do you go when you want to hide? For all the people, London is wide open and raw. There are no hills or valleys; even the forests at this time of year are sparse and clear. Everything is a window. Every corner carries a wind tunnel, and the gutters are merging with the puddles. Even the grates in the footpaths are flooded and full, and I can’t help but think of the London below, the teeming pipes and tunnels. In every movie you’ve ever seen of anyone under water, there is that scene where they take the very last gasp of air available to them, pressed up against the underside of a ship, or the top of a pipe, pressing their lips to the metal before the water closes over their heads. The underside of London, home to trains and fatbergs and rats, is full to the brim. 

I recently got an unexpected haircut, so unexpected that when I met my husband (husband) afterwards at the pub, he looked at me and asked, “When did you decide to cut it short?” and I realised I still hadn’t decided. I hadn’t thought about it at all, like you don’t think about turning left instead of right, or whether you go sock, shoe, sock, shoe or sock, sock, shoe, shoe until somebody asks. I’ve never been that cavalier about my hair; in fact, I’m the opposite, a devastatingly boring Sampson, with every opinion I’ve ever had about myself, from my appearance to my intellect, interwoven with my miserable, fine hair. I have taken so many selfies just outside the entrance of my hair salon, as if to double-check with myself that the decisions I made in the chair have followed me out the door and into the air. I’m checking I’m still there (I always am). 

When you move house, you leave a piece of London behind. I can visit Marylebone, but I will never know Marylebone Station as I knew it then, as I remember it to be at this time of year: the last-minute Christmas shops (Oliver Bonas and Hotel Chocolat) packed full of people asking for wrapping and for cards; the very tall tree that stood in the centre of things; the old piano that kids and old people would bash out carols on. Marylebone Station sometimes seems like a strange choice for a Monopoly Station, small now and off to the side of things, but it was the center of my universe once. The picture I took in its small photo booth is still in my passport, and will be for another five years. Some things move fast, and some move very slowly. In Marylebone, in our windowless bedroom, in the bathroom where I have had the best baths. I lived there three years ago now, for three years, and some moments stand out like burns on wrists, but most are gone. 

At work, nobody noticed my haircut at all. It is a commonly known fact that nobody is as interested in you as you think they are, but it’s still strange when you see that fact told back to you, clearly and plainly. Nobody cares about your haircut, or the neighbourhood you used to love, and so you have to care exactly the right amount: not too much so that it hurts you to remember, so that you miss your past more than you love your present; but not so little that it counts for nothing, three years of your life, not much in the grand scheme of things, not much at all when you think back.

Pickpockets

The thing is that I’ve already seen them, already noticed them, and that’s what makes it so galling. A tall man and a short man, both in nice coats, speaking loudly and intently in a language I don’t recognise. They’re near us right from the beginning, when we arrive at the theatre bar and join our friends on a large table. We share wine and slide into the booths, coats pulled off shoulders and collapsed onto chairs behind us. It’s winter, so everyone has too much stuff: discarded jumpers and scarves and hats and bags. It is hot and packed in the bar before the shows go in, so we’re trying not to take up too much space, but there are still bags hung from from every chair, and piles of possessions. 

They’re not doing anything other than standing there talking, but they’re too close to us, and they remain that way for the 40 minutes it takes for our group to collect and chat.

At 10 minutes to 10 the show goes in, and there’s a confused mass of movement as people move to the bar to buy a final drink, and pass each other their possessions. I pull on my coat; I’m holding my scarf and gym kit, and a glass of wine in the other hand. I’m slower than most of the others, getting my stuff ahead of me, and most of our group have already headed in the theatre. 

I walk between the two men, who are still there, and still on my radar, but who I think are angling for our table, to get to the bar where Adam is buying a beer, and as I do so, the shorter one moves into me, and bumps me hard. I don’t exactly feel his fingers in my pocket, not as precise as that, not through all my layers, but I make eye contact with the taller one, and I know exactly what has happened, but not what they’ve got. And because it’s busy and my friends aren’t quite near enough; and because it happens so quickly and because I’ve had some wine, my first move is to find somewhere to put down my wine so that I can check for what I already know.

It takes me ten seconds to put down my wine and pat myself down. They have my wallet, but not my phone (which I’ll be pleased about later, when I’m not busy feeling like a fucking idiot). I yell to Adam, I look around for them, but I can’t see them anywhere, and I’m not even sure if I’d know them if they weren’t standing together, talking loudly. The crowd is all heads taller than me and black jackets, and there’s nothing I can do but pat myself down again and again, hoping to will it back into my pocket. 

The good things: I have no cash, and I cancel my cards quickly, and it doesn’t look like anything has been taken. The bar manager and bouncer are empathetic, and get us free drinks while they scan the CCTV footage (too many people, no clear view). Adam is attentive and helpful and buys me martini and doesn’t tell me to shut up as I rant about how I knew, I just knew, why didn’t I do anything! There is no real loss to me except my old, tatty wallet and the annoyance of three cancelled cards. I didn’t even lose a tenner, or a gym pass. 

But I’m sick of the shitty stuff. Perhaps all it means is that I’ve had a charmed life up until this point, but I’m stuck on the unfairness of being robbed and pickpocketed in one year. I know I have a hundred blessings to count, and I do count them, and I do appreciate them, and I know I am lucky to have had insurance and the capacity to cancel my cards quickly but I’m counting this year down. The calendar flicking over from one year to the next might be nothing more than arbitrary but 2019 has been a year of huge joys and huge challenges and I feel it in a tightness in my neck and the hardness of Monday mornings. 2020 feels round and clean, a new orb in a blue sky. I’m ready for it.

My gym

My gym offers a training system whereby you wear a band around your ribs, with a sensor that sits above your heart. As you workout, it registers the intensity of your exertion, against the minutes you do it for, against the frequency with which you do it. Reach a certain level of exertion regularly for 12 months, and you hit Gold. 24 months equals platinum. The sensor only works when it’s damp, so if you’re not sweating enough, and it’s not picking up the signal, you have to dampen it with your water bottle. In the advertisement, a shirtless man and a sports bra-clad woman stand, proudly sporting the bands. I’ve never seen anyone wearing one in the gym, but I know people use them, so they must be sporting them surreptitiously under their sports wear, sweating into their sensors. 

My gym is neither fancy nor sleek, and it is mostly full of muscle-bound men. There are a few bikes, and about ten treadmills, but it’s nothing like gyms I have belonged to in the past, which were largely populated by women, and filled with rows and rows of black treadmills in perfect lines. My gym is a weights gym, which means that while I might get annoyed by men twice as heavy as me and ten times stronger throwing 180 pound bars to the ground as they grunt, I never have to wait for a treadmill. 

I know there’s something a bit odd about the way I work out. Every lunchtime I walk the eight minutes to my gym. It takes me five minutes to change, less in summer. I stretch briefly, run for 5, sometimes up to 8 kilometers, stretch again, foam roll, shower, change, and walk the same eight minutes back to work. I vary my running (hills, sprints, tempo, depending on what my running coach / long-suffering and endlessly time-generous pal has timetabled in for me) but never my routine. It has been suggested to me that I would get more out of a lunchtime workout if I didn’t walk eight minutes only to run on the spot for 40. I could change in the office, be running from the second my trainers hit the pavement. 

I’ve never been a confident runner (I’m getting better), and it took a long time for me to be comfortable running outside. I used to do loops of Regents Park, but then I moved to Stockwell, where a few attempts at running outside resulted in uncomfortable cat-calling, so I stopped. It’s not just the eyes; it’s also the noise, and distractions, and stoppages. Traffic lights, cars, tourists. I am not easily moved to motion, and once I stop my muscles rebel. Each time spent restarting is a little bit more difficult. Plus, there’s something embarrassing about running. I’m a well-practiced, almost angry speed-walker, and I’m proud of my ability to pound pavements, and make a mockery of estimated Google Map walking speeds. But I’m not confident of myself at higher speeds. I don’t know what I look like. I don’t trust myself not to look like an idiot. 

Now that I live in Finsbury Park, which is filled with joggers and dog-walkers at all paces and life-stages, I’m happier to practice my paces in the parks, but I’m still more inclined to comfort on a treadmill. I keep my eyes down and front, glazed and focused. The same program that requires the damp band around your middle and the sensor at your heart says that at 70 – 80% exertion, your exercise requires more mental focus; meaning, you can’t let your mind wander back to work or through your emails or forward to your weekend or you will drop the barbell or face-plant on the treadmill. That’s the percentage of exertion that I like to be at on my lunchtime runs – just hard enough that all I can think about is how many more minutes I have to do it for. I think about my breathing, and my pace, and my feet, and that’s it. 

I’ve been going there long enough now that there are people I recognise, and know well enough to smile at. I never go further than that, because I don’t go to the gym to talk. There’s the short older man who always takes the same spin bike (and will put his drink bottle down to mark it a full 30 mins before class starts), and dyes his hair a vivid black. There’s the popular gym trainer, with tattoos up both arms, who is approachable but can also hold a handstand for a full minute.  There’s the older woman who always wears a very high-legged leotard laced with purple at the back, who seems to know everyone, and whose mother died in June. I’ve listened to her talk about it, as I shower and change and patch up my makeup. She can’t talk to her brother. She’s been packing up the house. The phone number got cut off. There’s not much I don’t know. 

I don’t know how to be casual about anything. Recently, my work laptop died, and got replaced with a newer model. I held onto the old laptop for a little while, as my stolen home laptop got replaced; and when I had to wipe it and hand it in, I felt a genuine sense of loss. I put my hand on top of it and said “thank you” when I put it in the storage cupboard, knowing that it would only be sold for parts. I felt genuine loss. I know I’m insane. 

I could move gyms. We have a new health care system at work that means I could go to a closer, fancier gym which, on the subsidised rate, would be considerably cheaper. It would be the kind of gym with free towels and hair straighteners and good conditioner. But I have a familiar routine with my familiar old gym, which is now just slightly too far away to be really practical for a lunchtime session and I don’t know how to say goodbye to the damp showers and distorted mirrors, the treadmill in front of the air-conditioning vent, and the woman with the dead mother. 

When I come back from my lunchtime runs I am pink in the face, and sticky, and calm. I can focus so much better, having spent that essential 40 minutes thinking only about how much further I have to run.

Abstinence

I stopped drinking for October for a number of reasons. The first was that I drank all through September. I got bad news, and good news, I had a birthday, friends had birthdays, and I drank. We mixed negronis in our kitchen and I drank strong gins on sticky dance floors. I am the type of person who gets gifted bottles of red wine; I am not the person who saves them for a special occasion. I poured a large glass on the night we got burgled, after Adam got home, and I could unclench my fists. 

The second reason was just that: we got burgled, and walking down the street we live on began to feel like walking into battle. My fingernails would dig into my palms the second I turned off the well-lit main road. I could feel my heart rate start to go up as I approached the front of our house, waiting to see the window open, the glass smashed, a strange body silhouetted by our curtains. I was too afraid to get home drunk, or even just one glass deep; scared I would vomit or cry or scream or trip. 

The third reason is because I can. Sobriety isn’t really something I’ve danced with, not since I started drinking in university, horribly strong vodka and cranberry mixes night after night. In the cold dark of January, I abstain from dairy and meat, but not from alcohol. But this July, after an alcohol-imbued, hazy, beautiful June, I went sober for a month and encountered easy early mornings, longer runs, more restful sleep. So in October I’ve done it again. 

Last night I almost slipped. I walked down to the beach for my last evening in LA and watched the sun dip under an orange-streaked horizon. I sat on my own in a busy restaurant and ordered scallops as big as the ball of my thumb. Everyone was pairing their seafood with a picpoul, a pint. I chose what I would get. I justified it to myself – my last night alone, just one small glass, the seafood would taste to much nicer – and then, I ordered an alcohol-free beer and ate my scallops slowly with Anne Patchett for company. 

I am not an alcoholic but when I’m not drinking, I think about drinking a lot. I think about how easy it is to have a conversation about wine; how much wait staff like giving recommendations, and how much I like taking them. I think about how dining alone is easier with a glass in hand; how sitting alone with a book is easier to justify with wine to slowly sip. Tonight I will be on a plane for ten hours, and I will miss the way a terrible small bottle of wine makes it easier to nod off into the roaring dark. 

Forcing abstinence upon yourself is a strange human desire. What a middle-class inclination, to practice want. With so much excess available to us, it is perverse to implement your own deprivation. I have too much, I have had too much, there is too much here for me. I am practicing saying no to the things I want, in preparation for what?

Manhattan Beach

The check-in desk for my motel is behind glass, like a fast food drive-through window. There is a hair-dryer on a shelf, and a coffee machine on a table. A post-it note on the coffee machine says, “Sometimes bubbles break me.” 

My room smells of smoke, but it’s big, and clean. The shower takes three minutes to run warm and the bulbs glow dimly, except for in the bathroom, where I am over-exposed and hyper-lit and almost neon.  The duvet cover is thin, and hard under my fingers, striped in a mustard, red and brown that matches the curtains. One side of the room is a long bench and a small sink, and I have a full-size fridge that I have nothing to put in. I hang my shirts on the five wire hangers. I listen to the traffic on the six-lane road outside my window. 

3 minutes from my room there is a 3 mile path down to the beach, and I run along it the next morning when I awake at 1am, and 3am, and finally give up on sleep at 5am. In London, the old and poor juxtaposes with the old and rich in the space of a corner and a crossed road, so I don’t know why I’m surprised that LA is the same, two turned corners from huge white cars blasting through crosswalks to a bark-lined path down to the sea. 

The sun comes up just before seven and the sky is pink and grey and blue. The people here say good morning as I jog past, as if I’m back in Devonport. The neighbourhood of Manhattan Beach is an expensive one, but it has the look and feel of a cobbled-together hippy commune. The houses are a scrap-book of tiles and styles, tipping down the hill onto the beach, which is wide and white and gives way to sea studded with ships out to the horizon. Nothing matches; nothing goes. It is October and so the houses stream webs and black spiders; elaborately arrayed skeletons lie on loungers and gaze out to sea. 

I am nervous at the moment. I am anxious all the time. I check and double-check my phone, my wallet, my locked motel door. I think about how I left the curtains cracked open, and how someone might peer in, and see my (my what? My suitcase? My three Zara shirts? My half-eaten bag of crisps?) stuff, and break down the door and steal it. When my bag is checked at the airport, I think I’ll never see it again. When I run past a red-faced, sweaty mid-forties man in college sweats who pants hello, I imagine him shoving me sideways into the bushes. 

As it turns out, you can go from cock-sure and confident in the space of one prised window, one violated space. Back in London, at night, I listen for the sounds of another break-in. I am (again) proof that you only truly believe something is happening once it happens to you. My jewellery shoved in someone’s bag, sitting in someone’s room, pawned in someone’s shop; my laptop stripped for parts or sold. I am waiting for it to happen again. Through the closed curtains I can see them looking at the locks, the frame, and planning their entrance. Someone is always waiting to do you harm. 

It isn’t a panic attack exactly, but it’s something similar. My heart beat speeds and I sweat into my hair as I turn the corner onto my street. It’s October and I can’t get home before dark. 

The sun comes up at 6:43am in LA in October, but by 6am I’m at the curtains waiting for the sky to brighten. The only good thing about jet-lag is this new morning alertness. I want to be up, I want to be out.

There is so much more room there

There is so much more room there. Wider footpaths, wider streets, thick berms of grass separating the two, roots bending knees through the concrete and gutters full of fallen flowers. I never though twice about that grassy stretch that broke up road and pavement, on both sides of the street, on most of the streets. It seemed a normal way to keep pedestrian from road, to protect the small families from the fast cars, and now I wonder at the wide, stretched-arms of space, and the decision to give it to spikes of grass, and yellow flowers, and bees, and not to another lane for another car, or a thicker intrusion of concrete. After all, it’s not used for anything useful. Garbage bags collect on it, or spiny dumps of inorganic rubbish awaiting collection. Clumps of school kids wander along it at angles. Why would you leave so many spare cuttings of your carefully-planned, barely-considered city?

Sometimes I think of how the house I grew up in had an entire spare room for the washing machine. It contained that old, humming hunk of metal and plastic, vibrating across the concrete as it churned muck and sweat from three sets of school uniforms, and one large sink, used for overspills of laundry, or hand-washed silk (rare, but there, sometimes, black from Moochi, amongst the Glassons). An ironing board that stood always, because why would you collapse it and keep it in a cupboard, ready to trap your fingers upon next erection, when you could leave it perched, unplugged iron balanced, for the next collar, hem, pleat. I don’t even own an ironing board. Sometimes I think of buying one of those very small ones with very short legs to be used on very small tables in very small flats, and then I remember being 17 years old and buying a white shirt to wear at my waitressing job, and my mother telling me never to bother buying anything that needs to be ironed, and me buying them all those times since, and all the times I’ve never, ever worn them. The one, crisp white Cos dress that hangs off me like a lost costume for a nursetenniscoach, stuffed at the bottom of a bag of winter clothes. 

The house I did the majority of my growing up (sleeping over, heating up, showering off, sneaking out) in had too many doors, the sliding plastic kind with the dark metal frames and the long silver locks with black tips to flick up for locked and down for unlocked. More door than wall, all open to the sea and wind and seagulls. A house on the end of a peninsula, all doors and no walls, is something out of a novel where a widow paces an upper balcony and waves pound at the cliffs, but my childhood was all kayaks and bunny rabbits and dishwashing liquid on the trampoline. 

Working my way around: one set of sliding doors from my parent’s bedroom, one from my sister’s, two from the computer room, one from the dining room, one from the lounge, the front door, and another from the garage. Now I have two front doors (one ours, one shared) and one back door, and the back door gives me pangs such that we might need to get a security camera so that I can look at it and see that it is shut, shut, shut. The wall of our garden backs onto an estate, and sometimes they throw food over. Yesterday, a peach with a big bite taken out of it. 

I didn’t give a shit about the separate laundry while I lived there, a laundry big enough that one year, when we renovated the kitchen, we cooked in it for six months, a microwave and a slow cooker, living out of one bedroom and the garage while they ripped up the floors and knocked down walls and put in a thick silver crooked finger of a kitchen bench, which we loved, and which was the first thing they took out when the house was sold. In London it would be a double bedroom with natural light and rustic floors. It even had a huge built-in cupboard that was filled with old leaflets and bike helmets, not fit for protecting skulls. 

There is no inorganic rubbish in London. It’s not even a concept. Instead, people leave things on the footpath with signs scribbled on paper, Free, Take Me. Our nice neighbours are moving out and so they keep leaving plastic bags full of items in front of our shared hedge, Free, Take Me on plastic plant pots and bags of cutlery. The cutlery is gone. Halfway up the road there is a big wood and glass cabinet, with inlaid doors and carved handles. One leg is broken, all the glass is smashed.

I can recreate my whole childhood in one long moment inside my skull, recently stuffed full of parks in sun and beers in pubs and mornings in office buildings, but more permanently, padded all the way around with a lock snapped open, and a door slid wide, bare feet on rings of brick, warm toes on pricking grass, down concrete steps imprinted with the steps of children, a muddy, stone slide of a path, new wooden steps, concrete, rocks, mud and the sea.

A lot changes

A lot changes. Buying a house, getting married, getting a cat. Nothing changes. The weather breaks, steams and sweats and I act like it’s something brand new, even though the screenshots on my phone, the reminders served up to me one year cold, a piece of wedding cake frozen and forgotten, tell me it did exactly this, at exactly this time, last year. 

The air conditioning in our office is broken and it reminds me exactly what a basic, broken animal I am. I move from hot seat to hot seat, sweating and sticking, peeling my tacky thighs off the plastic seats of an unpleasant Thai restaurant in Soho. Somewhere since last summer, I have become a step tracker, and so I glance at my wrist, watching the small exercised increments stack up, as if wandering from meeting room to kitchen to desk might constitute real exercise. It feels like real exercise. I am tired, my flat feet blistered and sore in my Birkenstocks. I cannot keep my toenails painted, they constantly look like shit, the second nail on each foot blackened from netball. I am no athlete but now I run, 6, 7, 10 kilometers at a time, 20, 25, 30 kilometers a week, getting comfortable with being uncomfortable. There is nothing less natural to me. 

My garden loves the summer. This is Southern Hemisphere weather: heavy, hanging days caving into rain and thunder and a washed blue sky. I know the names of things now, since my Mum stayed, and filled the planters with soil, and dotted the beds with colours. I have drowned my sad pansies, but the lobelia is lush and the fuschia is taking over, a strange and foreign bright flash in my dusty English garden. I have tried to bring back the lawn, dead and curled around the edges like an old letter since one summer gone, but I have failed. The grass seed will not take and the fertiliser mushes into the soil like cake mix and the fat pigeons have come down from the trees and pecked up anything living. There are no worms turning my dead dirt, and I knew it even as I tried it, cutting the corners on the WikiHow article on bringing back a dead lawn. I need tools and time, and I have neither. The time I have is listless and flapping. I am laundry hung badly. I am dripping. I am clean, but beginning to turn. 

I am allergic to the ivy that coats the walls of my garden. Mostly it doesn’t matter. I don’t wrap myself in it. I like the way it hides the trellis and the noisy neighbours and the wall that is about to come down. Last weekend I took to it (take to a stage, take to hedges, take to drinking, I have taken to you, a duck to water) with new Amazon hedge clippers, and felt in the new blades the strength of easy destruction. The ground was thick with big green leaves by the time I was done but the ivy-walls themselves looked no different, no thinner. There are snails lurking in the hedge of ivy, snails that are denuding my small, trying flowers and so I throw them, one by one, over into the neighbour’s garden, which is a frenzied tangle of creeper and blackberries, and into which no one goes. I know I am allergic to ivy as I do this, because my Mum is allergic to ivy, and because last time I helped in the garden I got a red rash on both my forearms that lasted two weeks, but a month, two, have passed since I learned this and so I have forgotten that urgent, agonizing not-quite-pain, and I do not put a long-sleeved top on. 

Five days later and I am paying the price, with both arms stippled red and stinging. Antihistamines help a little, steroid cream helps a little. Soaked paper towels wrapped around both arms by a colleague I don’t deserve helps a lot, but doesn’t help with my typing speed. Summer has slowed the things around me, but my to-do list creeps longer, even as I hack at it. I hold ice cubes to my skin, stand with my arms under the taps in the bathroom for 30 seconds, a minute. I am sweaty, dripping, itching, suffering, distracted, indignant. I did this to myself, and I don’t quite know why.

Our wedding

There is a new candle on our window sill. It was a wedding present from Adam’s father and his partner – a Yankee candle called Wedding Day. The wax is white and the label shows a posy of white flowers. When my own father saw it, he said, “What scent is Wedding Day?” 

The official Yankee Candle site tells me that the candle is a sophisticated and soothing blend of florals and subtle fruits. The top notes are sheer citrus, aldehydes, and greens, with base notes of sweet musk, sandalwood and tonka bean. I used to work for Coty, a beauty conglomerate who represent a lot of the major fragrances, so I’m used to writing copy from product precis that read like this – a muddled and confusing garden, familiar words rising from wreaths of unfamiliar. I also know that writing copy for scents is almost an impossibility, since every concoction changes alchemically on the skin. A perfume that is a perfect fit with one person’s chemical mix of salt and sweat and the undefinable sits confusingly with the senses on another. You might have preferences, but for the most part you only know what you like it when you smell it on your own pulse points, throat and wrists, the silage you leave behind you in familiar rooms. 

Some parts of our wedding were easily planned for. We didn’t have strong feelings towards a church wedding, and in the UK you can only get married in a small number of registered venues per borough. That led us to the County Arms, a pub which was easily reachable by public transport, within our price range, and had a small pub garden in case the June sun I was hoping for came our way. I didn’t want to wear white, nor did I want to spend a huge amount, but a scouting mission in Harrods with my mother and sisters taught me that I did, in fact, want to wear something high waisted and monumental, the kind of gown that stands up on its own and bursts from packaging exuberantly. I found a skirt that fit those requirements on Etsy, created by someone in Lithuania, and the top in TopShop after 100 Google searches of combinations of the words silk, satin, sequin, camisole, vest, evening, blush, ivory, cream, coffee. I put off buying the top for so long that TopShop nearly sold out of the one I wanted, and Maddy had to do an emergency trip to Oxford Circus two weeks before the wedding. I tried on the two items together for the first time in front of a mirror at the tailor on the hottest day of the year so far, with a flushed face and sweat trickling between my thighs. The date of the wedding, June 15, came from my hope for sun, and our desire to avoid Glastonbury. 

One of my best friends, Rupert, who had wed the love of his life in January of this year, gave us a piece of advice, that I will always be glad we took: get ready together. 

We had been wondering how best to navigate this. My sister and her two wonderful housemates had already agreed to let us use their big house, with its big garden, in Tooting Broadway, for the bridesmaids to get ready. But there was no obvious location for the groomsmen – we live in Finsbury Park and the wedding was in Wandsworth, making our house an hour-long taxi ride away. When Rupert made his suggestion, it suddenly seemed like the most obvious thing in the world. Most of the members of the bride and groom’s parties are good friends. Many live south. This way we could all leave for the wedding together, and the florist could give out the buttonholes and bouquets, and champagne and beer only had to be supplied to one location. It was so obvious, and suited us so well that I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it before. After the decision was made, it was one of the things people expressed the most surprise about. Many believed it was bad luck that Adam and I spent the night before our wedding together, watching Game of Thrones and drinking negronis. Having done it our way, I don’t understand why you would do it another. I was nervous and excited before the wedding, and I got to share those feelings with my best friend. Why be a groom, waiting nervously at the altar, fearful that the bride might not show, when you could have sat outside drinking a beer with your bride-to-be, enjoying the last few minutes before the vows?

We didn’t get sun, or not much of it. On the morning of the day, Adam was despatched south to Primark to buy 8 clear plastic umbrellas, while I went to the hairdresser and had my hair styled by George, who turned me from a redhead to a blonde some 5 years ago. I took the tube from Baker Street down to Tooting Broadway, dodging occasional rain, and hoping my plait would hold in the wind (it did). My sister’s house was like a haunted Victorian mansion, each room filled with at least two bridesmaids in white dresses. I was lucky on two counts: to have enough people dear to me that even having seven bridesmaids felt like holding back, and to have those seven happy to wear a white dress of their choosing. In the lead-up I had plenty of questions from well-meaning (and incredulous) colleagues and friends about that, but it was an easy choice that I made early. White goes with anything, so whether I wore blush or the amazing rainbow Caroline Herrera dress I tried on early on the piece, it would work. In the end they all wore different dresses, and all looked uniquely amazing, accessorised with coloured shoes and lipsticks and earrings. The florist arrived; our wonderful friend Ally presided over the flowers; another wonderful friend, Billy, took beautiful pictures of everyone getting ready in the late morning light. The wedding photos are wonderful, but Billy’s capture the atmosphere of anticipation and excitement of the hours of preparation, as well as our comfort and pleasure in familiar company. 

We took Ubers to the venue. When I arrived, many guests were already there, thronged at the front of the pub. We sat down with the registrar and celebrant, poised women who had clearly done exactly this four hundred times before. Adam and I sat together, holding hands – another moment which bride and groom would typically spend apart. And then everyone was seated, Taylor Swift was playing and I was stood at the side of the pub, arms linked with my father, ready to walk up the makeshift aisle. I knew I would walk too fast and I did, with Dad whispering in my ear to slow down. My skirt filled every inch of space between the chairs, and he did so well not to stand on my train. 

When you do a non-religious wedding ceremony, you are provided with a very clear script, from which the celebrant will not diverge by one word. I have been to magical ceremonies in New Zealand, where the celebrant speaks at length about the couple, and the individuals, and their hopes and dreams, and at our wedding there was none of that. It was crisp, formal, legal, sensible. We had two readings that brought our own colour to the script – my mother reading an excerpt from The Odyssey, and our friend Rupert reading a blog piece written by Neil Gaiman, which he performed from memory, directly to us. 

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I was nervous about the ceremony. Nervous about standing there in front of so many people, nervous about how I would feel, nervous about whether it would feel farcical, in a pub, with people swilling pints behind a curtain and the kitchen trying to be quiet as they plated up meals at the rear. I was nervous in the moment; the quiver in my voice and the shake in my hand was undeniable. But – underneath the chandelier, in front of red roses and eucalyptus, reflected back in the mirror – there was something sacred about it anyway, from the formal vocabulary issuing from the mouth of a smiling stranger, to the poured-over words of the deeply contrasting readings, to our vows, spoken directly at each other. I felt the same when Adam knelt in our small Stockwell flat. That kind of promise, made with that weight of intent, shuts down the air around it. I, given to sarcasm and alleviating pressure with humour, felt no need to joke, just the working of the muscles in my jaw as I smiled at him, at once familiar and strangely serious. I cried twice, and snotted on my vows. Neither of us could get the rings on each other. My sister wept throughout. Adam had to follow me down the aisle as we walked to Queen – Best Friend, my skirt too wide to let him stand beside me. And he was my husband. 

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That was the hard part, and that was the best part. In the lead-up to the event I had spoken often of looking forward to it as a chance to unite all our favourite people in the same room; a once-in-a-lifetime perfect party. And it was that, but it was more as well. I have always been sentimental, and exhaustingly monogamous, and yet simultaneously somewhat skeptical of marriage as the ultimate union between two people. I have though living together, buying a house together, opening bank accounts together to be a far greater expression of trust and dependence. Now I believe there is something in the ceremony of it, whether you do it in a pub or a church or a registry office. It means something. 

After the ceremony there was prosecco and photos. The County Arms is a beautiful pub, and it is situated near Wandsworth Common, but we were keen to do the family photos as fast as possible, and so the majority of them were taken on a grass verge near a bus stop, angled to keep the busy road out of the photos, and dog poo had to be scooped out of the way by an empty prosecco flute. The rain held off, and we didn’t need the umbrellas. Plenty of people had told me that the formal photos were unnecessary, but I’m still glad we got them – inside the pub, with 100 people, we would never have got the family photos we wanted. And we look elated, all with matching bouquets, clutched low across the white and blush. The photographer (Alice the Camera, truly brilliant) told us to look at each other and laugh, and so that elation is a bit plastic, but it looks real. And looking back at it from a distance of 3 weeks, the rain and the bus stop and the dog poo all feels essential. A London wedding, with London weather and smells. 

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Everything was touched upon by someone. The music throughout the day was chosen by my sister Emily (she also advised my to follow my heart and walk up the aisle to Taylor Swift). The place-settings were calligraphy by the hand of one of my bridesmaids, Alice. The photo wall was done by Lauren, the lights hung by Liz and Ally, the sweets put into jars by Nicole, the bunting left over from my hen do untangled by Adam’s mother and sister.

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The photographer was recommended by one of the best men; the florist, Emily, by my godmother. Our friends Alice A and Luke witnessed. My hen do, organised by all my bridesmaids (especially Liz, Emily and Kathryn) felt so perfectly catered to me it hurt. Organising a wedding as ex-pat is a bittersweet thing, because there are always people who can’t be there, and places you might have liked to be. But in the end, I didn’t feel alien at all, but rather like we’d been lucky enough to gather around us, by some strange and lucky gravity, everyone we needed. People who needed, and loved us. 

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The speeches, after the ceremony, were my favourite part of the day: my groom on my left, my sisters surrounding me, large glasses of red wine that I had chosen for its deliciousness, and people standing up at intervals to say exceptionally nice things about me. Adam led off with a speech that was poised and practiced on his two best men. He was – as he is – warm and loving and funny, careful to thank everyone involved, nervous at the microphone, but not showing it at all. My sister Maddy then followed, reading out something I had written, then wrapping everything together in a sincere and beautiful testament to love. She shook as she read, and I looked up at her, in awe of her strength and the power of her words. 

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I didn’t eat any of the food except for the fries, but I hear it was good. 

After dinner were three more speeches – the best man, my Dad and myself.

Chris, one of the best men, had been a rock throughout the wedding prep, from organising the stag do to helping practice the speech. He is a career best friend and a practiced best man, and his speech erred on kind rather than cruel (the tradition of terrible stories from the best man will never cease to confuse me). In the speech, Chris proved that he reads this blog, slightly to my detriment – so Chris, I hope you like this post a bit better than the other.

Dad spoke with the poise of a politician, with reference cards but a tendency to go off the cuff. He worked the room with smiles and wry humour and made me feel truly loved (even if he kept called me Maddy).

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And then I spoke, to wrap things up. I had always intended to speak, but wasn’t entirely sure what I would say – Adam would take care of the thank you’s. In the end, it was easy and relaxed – having already cried and expressed mucus through my nose in front of the same crowd, I wasn’t nervous. After the speeches, I went to the bathroom and took off my Spanks and my (already extremely low) high heels and put on my Supergas, and felt entirely myself. 

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It was a day that felt entirely ours, from the doughnut we cut in lieu of a cake, to the dance floor absolutely packed with friends and family, new and old, singing their lungs out to the cheesiest music.

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Our budget wasn’t huge, and we spent it on food (a candy station, a large array of late night beige snacks, with plenty of vegan options) and booze.

I didn’t speak with everyone; I danced with most people.

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I stood in the spitting rain and wrapped layers of tulle around my friends’ cold shoulders. I took Polaroids of my cousins, my colleagues, our friends and family, everyone, capturing the moments in as many ways as possible. 

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Our wedding smelled like rain on hot pavements and un-mown grass; like deep fat fryers and sausage rolls and 60 people jumping up and down to Rihanna. It smelled like red roses and warm doughnuts. Every wedding is different, and our wedding wouldn’t have been perfect for anyone else. But it was perfect for us. 

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My Vows

Adam. Since the beginning you have made me feel safe and sure and certain. You have never made me question how you feel, from our beginnings in Japan to our home in London. I love how honest you are. I love how loyal you are. You’re an optimist, a thinker, curious and kind to your core. You’re a problem-solver and a pun-maker and my partner. I am 100% myself with you.

We’re not the same. You’re numbers, and I’m words. You’re strategy, and I’m creativity. You’re facts, and I’m fiction. We are opposites attracting, two minds meeting. They say that all love stories are retellings, but this kind of happiness is brand new to me. Falling in love with you was so easy. 

I promise to back you and to bolster you. I promise to be honest to you, and believe in you, and to trust in us. I promise to stick with you through the bleak times and laugh with you through the good ones. I promise to find the good in the hard bits, and to always seek silver linings. 

You’re my best friend, my partner, my very favourite person and I feel exceptionally lucky that in about 10 seconds, you’re going to be my husband. Game on, boyfriend.

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My Speech

Hello! Welcome to our wedding. I have assigned myself three minutes for this speech, and you will probably be unsurprised to learn that two minutes of this are going to be about our cat. 

When Adam and I decided to adopt a cat, we went to the Wood Green Animal Shelter, where there were only two cats available for adoption – a fluffy five year old called Alice, and a young ginger tomcat called Chunky. 

When I went into Chunky’s cage, he was tucked up in the very smallest darkest corner of the enclosure – I couldn’t see him, except for two big eyes, and I couldn’t touch him. He made me feel sad, so I only stayed in his cage for a minute. I then met Alice, who flirted with me outrageously, and then bit me, so I fell immediately in love with her. 

Adam was still in the cage with Chunky, who continued to refuse to emerge. The woman at the shelter told us that he had been bullied by the neighbourhood cats, and that his favourite food was fried chicken. 

We left soon after, but we both knew what had happened. I had fallen for Alice, and Adam wanted Chunky. 

We discussed it that night. I said that we were new independent cat owners – without parents around to do 98% of the work – and that we were better suited to a happy, trained independent cat, who would be affectionate. I said that we didn’t know what to do with a cat who was nervous and unhappy, and might never adapt to our household. Adam said that Chunky needed us. That evening we put a hold on Alice. 

The following day, Adam went back to visit Chunky. He still wouldn’t come out of his cage, still wouldn’t be touched, and Adam reluctantly accepted that he might not be the right cat for us. 

We waited three days for Alice, while she had her last vet checks, and then Adam went in to pick her up, during which visit he was told, to his delight, that Chunky had started mingling with the other cats, and that he was likely to be adopted soon, as people prefer young cats as a rule, and because ginger cats are the most popular shade of cat. After hearing this – and, I think, only after hearing this – Adam felt free to fall in love with Alice. She is now in charge of us both. 

As I wrote out that story, I realised it perhaps didn’t cast me in the best light, but I have always been a sucker for ferocious women. And it showed Adam exactly as he is – kind in his bones, a backer for the underdog (or cat), a person always swayed to aid the person most in need. Adam is the person who unhesitatingly helps old women on the street, and always listens to both sides in the debate. He is almost annoyingly universally loved. I have always been inclined towards friendships with women over men (have you met my seven bridesmaids?) but was lucky to have accrued a few strong male friendships over the years. Upon our moving to London, Adam has slowly but steadily gathered them as his own, arranging them into various teams, of sports and gaming persuasions, and I know where their loyalties lie now. Rupert, you still belong to me. I am a jealous person, but I am also extremely proud of our wide shared net of friends. As well as our actual family, we have built real family in London, out of cats and people, and it has made our lives so much better. 

Can’t believe I only assigned myself 3 minutes, what the heck was I thinking, have you read my blog? You should. I’ve been nervous in the lead up to the wedding, but now I am just extremely thankful for the family arrayed around us. My sisters Maddy and Emily, and my new sister, Laura, and brother Tom – and his partner Raluca and their amazing baby. My parents, who have been so generous and travelled so far. Adam’s parents, and Gail, who have given us so much of their time and love. All of our extended family, aunties and uncles and cousins and godmothers from overseas and over motorways. The big overseas Cayford contingent. Di, Ally and Corey, all the way from Australia, Rupert, Nicole and Lauren, from New Zealand. Friends I’ve had for 20 years, 10 years, 5 years, from school, university, work. The incredible team who organised and attended my hen do. All of our amazing friends, old and new, who have given up annual leave, loads of their time, a great deal of sleep, all of their talents, a huge amount of their patience. 

Adam has mentioned those who couldn’t be here today, but I also wanted to nod to my grandmothers, Joyce, in Timaru, who is too old to travel, but I know would have loved to be here today with so many of her daughters and sons and grandchildren. And Nancy Holmes, who died 4 years ago at 101, whose love of poetry featured in our ceremony, and has filtered down to me through my wonderful mother, and who I am honoured to have known. There are some truly marvellous matriarchs in this family. 

I wasn’t sure I wanted a big wedding – in fact, I have often described this day in the lead-up as casual, which is not how 90 people gathered in a room to eat simultaneously is usually described, but I now realise that this day not only represents a lifetime with the smartest and kindest man I have ever met, but also the only excuse I will ever have (apart from my funeral?? Not the same) to gather everybody I love in one room and tell them how much I love them, and how grateful I am for them. I am so glad you’re all here. Thank you so much for coming. Please raise a glass to all of us here today. 

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