Seven years ago today, I woke up in my parents' house and saw, out the corner of my eye, my dress - a great big shiny white vision of five kinds of fabric, hanging by the window. It was time to get married. I leapt out of bed like a six year old on Christmas morning and ran downstairs. My Mum had prepared my favourite breakfast, scrambled eggs with smoked salmon on toast.
My hairdresser turned up at ten o'clock, and to her horror (and mine) I told her I didn't like my hair when she was finished. It was too fru-fru, curly, fancy, bouncy, bundled up on my head. She had to take it all apart and try to fix it. And really it was my fault because I should have done the trial-hair-run like everyone told me.
By midday my hair was sort of mended and I scurried around my parents' house wrestling with my enormous dress and getting ready.
When I arrived at the hotel, I was so nervous I could hardly breathe. That, and my dress was squeezing the air out of my lungs. But I took my Dad's arm, and breathed as we walked up the aisle to J who was waiting there for me.
After we'd said our vows, we slipped away from the party for a few moments and took a drive around the Suffolk countryside. It was cold and crisp and a frost hung in the air and on the ground. It was one of my favourite parts of the day.
It went by fast, that day. We chatted with friends and family, posed for thousands photos, ate dinner and pudding and cake and drank and danced into the evening.
It was one of those days I wish I could revisit for just a second, to take in some of that magic again. So many great moments, so many laughs, so much love.
It was a fine day, and it was a sign of things to come.
Happy Anniversary sweetie.