The eighth of March: hen do. Nine of us. I made a speech at about eleven o’clock at night about how lucky I was.
The eleventh: I wrote the vows. I have them. They are four paragraphs and the third one is about honesty and I wrote it at that kitchen table at about half nine at night with a solicitor’s letter in a box file eleven feet above my head.
The fifteenth: I married a man who could not marry me, and I said those four paragraphs out loud to him, and I meant every word of them, which is the part nobody believes.
I did mean them. That is what I cannot get anybody to understand, including Halla for about four months.
I was not standing there laughing at him. I was marrying him and holding a thing at the same time, and I did not experience those as contradictory, and I would like to know what that says about me.
