It's rather scary, but P and I celebrated our third anniversary at the weekend. I know in the big scheme of things that three years is somewhat paltry, but it's a long time in my world and my best effort yet.
To mark the occasion, my very lovely and romantic boyfriend took me for a slap up meal at the Wolseley and then for cocktails at Nobu, and we got dressed up in our finery to make sure we looked the part.
For someone who has been stuck head first in (what has become) a very tedious essay and who has not seen the nightlife of London for weeks, my feeling about the evening was not dissimilar to that which a child feels when seeing her Christmas presents for the first time. Suffice to say, yesterday was spent sitting gingerly under a tree in St James' Park reading "The Runaway" by Elizabeth Anna Hart (published by Persephone obviously, but more on that later).
Yes, three happy years. I can only hope there are three hundred more to follow. At least.
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