You fill my heart, you keep me breathing ’cause you’re the storm that I believe in

I’m in the cream with grey blazer

The bride throws the bouquet in the marketplace under the town hall, where there is more space. There is bunting strung up in satisfying linear rows; walls but an open ceiling – half inside, half out; perfect for this half summer, half winter weather. I don’t catch the bouquet. It sails over my head as I stumble back, my arms up, and make a judgement call that my shoes are too tall for me try and harder, no matter how much I would like a bunch of flowers.

“We have to leave now, really,” I say to the bride, apologetically. For some reason, MindReader and I decided to go down to Devon and back in a day. We say our goodbyes, congratulating the bride and groom once more, and step out of the markeplace and into the town. It’s not warm, but I’m not cold in my dress and wedges. The car is about a ten minute walk away.

“Aah,” I say, swinging my arms by my sides. It feels nice to be out, on foot, in a strange village I’ve never been to. I’m the designated driver, and the rest of the evening stretches happily in front of me. I love driving. I love everything about it. The meditative, comfortable silences, the darkness, being completely aborbed by something, the satisfying swing up from fourth gear to fifth, timing easing out onto a roundabout perfectly, eating rubbish and stopping at garages that sell strange selections of cuddly toys and pork pies.

It’s just getting dark as we walk along the high street, past closed tea rooms and shops selling figurines made of shells. The sky is still a lit-up blue but the air around us is darkening.

MindReader puts his arm around me. “I got a great photo of you trying to catch the bouquet,” he says, his mouth next to my ear.

“Ha,” I say. “I wasn’t trying.”

His blue eyes meet mine, and I think in them is a message, just for me: when we’ve got the money.

In the car, I ask for my bag. MindReader reaches into the back seat and retrieves it. “I brought my slippers!” I say gleefully.


I slip of my wedges, surveying the indentations the straps have left. I push my feet into my fluffy, warm slippers and let out a sigh of satisfaction.

“You’re nuts,” MindReader says.

“Well, if I’m driving…”

The stereo stops working as I navigate us along Devon’s A-roads. Instead of listening to Yoko Ono on Desert Island Discs we re-enact it. I play a very Scottish Kirsty. MindReader is Yoko. We laugh and eat Skittles. It is a good evening.

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