I often joke that Laurence is the real grownup in this marriage and that I’m still working out this adult thing. I may have the book sense but he’s got the infinitely more valuable practicality. But every now and then I realise just how much I depend on him, and it’s not something I’m altogether comfortable with.
We’re packing up the flat to move into our first house this weekend and I’m coming face to face with my usual lack of organisation. One suitcase has books, shoes, a mini djembe drum, a hot water bottle, hangers and a game of chess. My mother would look at this, amused, and wonder what these things have in common. They’re all stuff that was living room at the time, Mum. I’m sorry, you did try.
Then the moment of truth comes, will I initiate the exchange of numbers? She’s got no reason to initiate it. She’s settled in her life, her social group. So it’s up to me to make that move. And more often than not, I don’t. I just hope we’ll bump into each other again.