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.   

On one side of our new home was a baker's and on the other a grocer's. After arriving at the apartment there was still enough time to go out and buy a few basics to last us the weekend.

We had jam buns and cheese for tea and I was still wearing my going-away outfit, a navy jersey two piece with very high stiletto heels. I had taken the little white hat off before shopping and now, after eating, I was relieved to pull my shoes off.

I didn't think I was hungry until I sat down to eat and we didn't rush the meal, going over the events of the day. (I have noticed that the longer I sit at a table, the more I eat).

After a while we made our way to the kitchen to wash the dishes.  (Peter had already decided that the earliest time we could go to bed that wouldn't look too hasty was nine o'clock.  This was because the landlady's mother, who was in her eighties and lived in the other half of the house, would notice and tell her daughter if we went too soon).  So, it was  chores for us until nine o'clock. 

The area designated as the kitchen qualified as a kitchen because it had a 1930's gas cooker, a cream painted  larder lined with faded blue paper and a sink and draining board. All the modern housewife could possibly need! It was teeny-tiny and to close the door we both had to squeeze up to the sink, so we didn't bother.

The division of labour was decided when I said I'd wash and Peter could wipe.  The task did not take long and as I tipped the pan of soapy water down the drain I heard Peter say, 'Can I tell you something?'

I was still in happy-bride mode and turned to look at him excitedly, wondering what wonderful thing he was going to tell me.

'Wipe the draining board when you've finished.'    

Relatives on both sides had given us sheets and blankets and as our nine o'clock bedtime was still a few hours away we decided to make the bed.

Our bedroom overlooked the main road. (The landlady's mother, who by now I had christened 'Ladyfach' because she was so small, had her bedroom a short flight of stairs away from ours.  We'd seen her briefly when we'd arrived, but she had since disappeared.  I later realised she spent most of her time sleeping by the stove in her kitchen). 

Apart from the bed there was a double wardrobe and dressing table in our room, but there was no other way of storing our belongings. Deciding that the quilt and one of the blankets would be enough to keep us warm, we  covered the mattress with the other two blankets before putting the bottom sheet on.

Carefully, Peter checked that the blankets were placed squarely on the mattress, with the overlap on both sides being equal. We did the same with the bottom sheet, then tucked them in carefully. (Peter had done two years National Service, where things like that mattered, but he was naturally tidy, anyway). 

We finished by putting the top sheet and the rest of the bedding on, Peter checking again that everything was centred properly. Then I remembered a bag I had left downstairs with a hairbrush and slippers and asked him to fetch it, while I finished the tucking. 

I had seen little of the town on the only previous visit I had made, when my mother and I  had come to view the apartment, so we went for a walk.

The old part of the town was approached by a very narrow street. Lime washed cottages, which had been the homes of fishermen during the nineteenth century, overlooked the quay and there was a steep bank nearby, covered with wild purple rhododendron.  I could have lingered, but the breeze was cool, so we headed back up the hill.

Once  home, I put the kettle on for a cup of tea. Peter drew the living room curtains and found they were too narrow to meet in the middle but, fortunately, a large safety pin on the window sill  solved the problem. 

'I hope the bedroom curtains are alright',  said Peter, opening the biscuits. (Did I mention he's a pessimist?)

'We 'll put a sheet over the curtain rail if we need to', was my response.

Nine o'clock came, our appointed bedtime. We tiptoed upstairs very quietly and closed the bedroom door behind us. I was beginning to feel a bit like a fugitive.

Peter drew the curtains, checking there were no gaps, because any chinks of light would  mean he'd be unable to sleep. (I was learning new things about him all the time). He checked  his watch and wound the clock. At last we were in bed and as soon as we got in,  Peter pushed his foot down to the bottom of the mattress and ran it back and fore.

'What are you doing that for?' I asked.

'Just checking everything is tucked in properly otherwise I'll have to get up in the night to put it right'.

What makes a lasting partnership? I've absolutely no idea.

Monday morning and Peter was out of the house by eight thirty to start another week in school. He was on dinner duty this week so I would be alone until about five o'clock.

Following the Girl Guides rule, I washed the dishes then made the bed. I had no dusters but flicked around the room with a scrap of tissue paper, which I'd found inside a vase, one of our wedding presents. (I recalled some advice I'd had from a relative: don't buy any ornaments because you will be given plenty. She should have added: Though in all probability you will not like them.) 

Half an hour later, I had a list ready and made my way to the few shops in the town. Tall Georgian buildings, Victorian terraces with tiny gardens and privet hedges  lined the streets, bounded by a spectacular blue bay.  The sun  brought a bounce to the morning and I decided  there was no prettier place on earth. (Though I had not travelled extensively, I was still correct in my judgement. It was a beautiful town.)

 I bought vacuum sealed bacon, very new at the time and slightly more expensive than the loose slices the grocer sold but better, being less fatty. (My mother thought I was wildly extravagant, but it lasted us the week.  I also preferred washed potatoes, in preference to those covered in mud).

I needed sugar for baking, margarine, lots of flour. Going against Good Housekeeping and what I'd learnt in school, I used self-raising flour for cakes and pastry, deciding not to fuss if the pastry rose a little. 

A stroke of inspiration was deciding on mixed spice instead of jars of nutmeg, ginger and cinnamon, which would probably go stale, anyway, because I would use them in small quantities only. 

Before going back to the apartment I visited the little shop advertising sharks' fins, but I was to be disappointed. The owner had long given up stocking the items listed on the board but kept it in the window because it attracted tourists into the shop.

Then I showed him a recipe I had copied from one of  Good Housekeeping's publications, called Gobi Aloo Saag.

Frowning, he said I might have to send to London for ingredients like that.  Soho, perhaps. Curry powder was off the menu, too. Jam, tea, biscuits were   were popular in these parts.  'Where do you come from?' he wanted to know.   

That evening the most exotic meal I could produce for our tea was fried  mushrooms (a favourite of Peter's) and bacon, followed by crumpets (bought) spread with butter, sugar and cinnamon and toasted under the grill.

The previous week, Peter had left money with Ladyfach to pay for a sack of coal and I was looking forward to sitting by the fire. I'd seen nothing of Ladyfach during the day, only the occasional muffled noise as she moved around her kitchen. Now, when we were in the garden getting the coal, she appeared at the open window, offering us  newspapers for the fire. (This saved us  tearing up the cardboard box containing the porridge oats.)

It wasn't long before we had a bright fire going. Tomorrow I decided I'd light the fire myself. Little did I know the bother that fire would cause me.