Jeremy remembered it was our anniversary today. I’d forgotten. We met Milo and Salome and caught the J-Church to Yerba Buena. Cream puff from Beard Papa, then ten-pin bowling, then naps all round. Now I am drinking and watching the Oscars. Hugh Jackman looks kinda shabby, Will Smith’s ears stick out. I prefer my husband, cranky as he is.

Seven years ago today, I walked across Cooper Park in a pale gold bias-cut shift and gold Roman sandals, my arm linked with my father’s, my face aching with its grin, to where Jeremy stood under the pine trees in his black pants, linen shirt and Issey Miyake vest. Emer and Alain threw rose petals at my feet, and four-year-old Kelly wore a tiny version of my dress in electric blue. Everyone was high on sunshine and champagne. The caterers outdid themselves. It was a great wedding.

We’ve been bickering continually of late, but I must say that marrying him was by some substantial margin the wisest thing I have ever done.

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