When I checked the forecast yesterday, it looked somewhat dull—a typical warm and grey-ish early October weather, nothing else to expect. Yet when I woke up, the room was permeated with beaming sunlight—exactly like 12 years ago, on the day of our wedding.
But of course I was excited and worried—similarly to the level of anxiety I’d felt earlier, at the Shire Hall office, when nervously replying “yes!” to the question “are you related to him”: the facial expression of the office clerk, a charming lady, was one of those that people call “complex” (she nearly burst into laughter, but remained professional until the end).
I was nervous yet everything went surprisingly perfectly and smoothly—a lovely sunny day, my dress wasn’t stained or torn, my high-heeled shoes were comfortable enough to jog, my bouquet was gorgeous, Pachelbel’s Canon sounded divine when I was taken down the aisle, my friends were incredible, our reception at an old Italian restaurant, La Margherita, was cosy and welcoming, with the most delicious food you could ever imagine, our cake was nice, the girls punting on the river Cam yelling to us “Happy Wedding day!” when we took our pics on the Magdalene Bridge were funny and sweet, but the main thing was that dear goofball next to me to whom I said “Yes!”
Happy Anniversary, my darling.
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