I met my wife over a bowl of potpourri.
We were at a house party, not long after starting at sixth form college. Most of the attendees were friends from secondary school, but the host was a sociable sort and had invited various others who she had met since we started our A-level courses. As far as I remember there was no particular occasion to celebrate, aside from the fact that the host’s parents had gone away.
In the grand scheme of things, it was a delightfully tame affair: maybe thirty people gathered together in a nice detached house in a small Cambridgeshire village, drinking whatever alcohol we’d either plundered from our parents’ kitchen cupboards or persuaded them to buy for us. Perhaps one or two of the older-looking among us had managed to get served in the local shop. Not me.
Join our new commenting forum
Join thought-provoking conversations, follow other Independent readers and see their replies