My parents were telling me about the wedding they had just been to. For two people who follow a No Clapping In Church policy (which I’m prepared to bet they’ll waive, should I ever make it up the aisle), the full-on ‘guitars/improvised prayers’ affair was something of a shock to the system; and, as if that weren’t enough, they were seated next to the parents of my sixth form boyfriend at lunch.
Our relationship had been short-lived and not particularly happy. The last time we saw each other, he had asked:
‘I’m sorry, I know this is terrible, but could you remind me how we met?’
‘Are you serious?’
He looked a little ashamed. ‘I know. I think it was some of the stuff I did at uni, it might have affected my memory.’
His mother, who had always liked me, observed over the smoked salmon starter: ‘I think they met at the wrong time.’
Whenever that was.