It was my hen do in the Lake District and my friends had organised a game of Mr and Mrs. The idea, for the uninitiated, is to test how well you know your future spouse. Beforehand, they quizzed Ian, my intended, and then repeated the exercise with me, with extra fizzy wine. It began with the usual stuff (Where was your first kiss? Who is the better dresser?) but then they asked a question that suddenly sobered me up: “What is your greatest fear?”
I wondered whether to answer honestly. I instinctively knew the truth but was aware it might kill the vibe. I went for it anyway. “Not being able to have children,” I said. There was a momentary hush before one of the hens played a video of Ian guessing the rather more sweeping “Failure”, and someone filled my glass to the brim. I was 36.
