February is a double festival of love for me because my wedding anniversary falls just before Valentine’s Day. Most years we share nothing more than a slightly shifty “I haven’t got you anything,” but maybe this time we’ll push the boat out because we’ve been married for 10 years and have known each other for 30.
I’ve been thinking about this, not just because those are big numbers, but because we’re in the US and my husband is working, meaning I’m alone in a quiet suburb, walking empty, alien streets and wondering what I’m doing here. That’s pretty much how we met: I was alone in another silent, strange suburb on my pre-university year out, wondering what I was doing there. He offered to take me out to “practise his English”, took me round a hardware store, then bought me an awful burrito (it was Normandy in 1994; you can imagine). The rest is (our) history.
