Most of my day was eaten up on a work trip: I spent hours on a train heading Oop North for a meeting that lasted considerably less than the hours I then spent on a train heading back to London. By the time I’d got back into Kings Cross, I was thoroughly glad we were going out for a celebratory dinner, partially because I’d accidentally managed to spend the whole day powered only by a single fat-free yoghurt.
In the back of the cab to Polpetto, where The Writer and I had our first date three years ago, I deployed the super-power belonging to everyone who attended a girls’ school, and changed seamlessly from work jacket and trousers to dress and heels without showing one’s tits to the driver and half of Soho.
We ate our way through a completely delicious dinner, as is the only Polpetto way, of gin fizzes, toasted focaccia, burrata and samphire, crab linguine, goats’ curd and beetroot, chocolate flan and more red wine than was probably advisable on an average Tuesday.
I eschewed TW’s suggestion of a cab as too extravagant for a Tuesday, even an anniversary Tuesday, and we got on the tube.
Back at the flat, I unpinned my hair and mad a made dash to wrap up the last of TW’s anniversary presents that had arrived that morning.
“Come over here a minute,” he said, leaning against the sofa as I battled with the Sellotape.
“Hang on,” I flustered. “Just let me finish this.”
“Look, I think you should turn around.”
Something in TW’s voice made me put down the wrapping paper and turn to face him. He reached out his arms and pulled me towards him.
“I love you,” he said, “and want to spend the rest of my life with you. So there’s a question I want to ask you.”
My heart stopped and my eyes welled up as he crouched onto one knee and reached inside his jacket pocked to produce a sparkling sapphire ring.
“Will you marry me?”
I wish I could say I responded with calm and grace and dignity. I didn’t. I cried, shrieked and cried a bit more; threw in a “what the holy fuck do you think you’re doing?!” and kept crying. Smooth as sandpaper, me.
In amongst the tears, though, I managed to utter a “yes” as he slipped the ring onto my finger.
Best. Tuesday. Ever.