I'm fond of diaries. I've read quite a few;  published diaries, not private ones, I mean.  Apart from Pepys who, like all like all good diarists is wonderfully indiscreet, I have raced through The Red Leather Diary (don't let the fact that it is written by a teenager in the 1920's deter you), Our Hidden Lives (wartime accounts by ordinary people) and many others.

I am not a daily diarist though I have four diaries for this year, one with appointments, one with book titles and the name of blog posts and the other two with random jottings.    Peter is a very reliable diarist and he has a set of diaries going back thirty years, recording the date when the Road Tax is due and how much he paid the plumber and that sort of thing. If one of our daughters wants to know when she last went somewhere or other, even if it was years ago, he can look it up. He deals only in facts, not revealing any thoughts he may have.

Now I mention this difference between us only to demonstrate how unalike we are. Yet we have been married fifty five years.

Picture this: October 3rd 1959. According to the calendar it is autumn yet the early morning grass is dewdrop green and the sky a scrubbed blue hue. A day, bright and warm as high summer, will follow.

I  wear a white satin gown fastened with twenty covered buttons down the back; the buttons and loops have taken the  seam-stress hours to make but the dress fits beautifully. Three scented gardenias form the headdress, held in place  by a short veil. A prayer book, decorated with swirling ribbons and a single gardenia serves instead of a bouquet. Together with a blue leg garter, white very high heels and mother-pearl ear-rings, I am ready for Church.

 Outside, two neighbours throw rice over me and I thank them, feeling slightly embarrassed, as it is an unexpected gesture.  As I step into the limousine I think of Peter, waiting for me in his morning suit.

On the short drive to church I notice groups of women hurrying along, and wonder where they are going. The car almost stops when it reaches the narrow lane leading to the  church because it is crammed with well-wishers, who have come to watch our wedding.

The rector, fully robed, hurries to meet me, saying  the church is full, packed with all my friends. At that moment, I realise the interest shown in me is because I am sixteen and about to get married.