Five years ago today, all of my friends - even Politika, who lives on the coast - pulled up at my house in a limo. A "well stocked with booze" limo. I had spent the day shopping, I was sporting a new haircut, wearing new clothes. Nice, expensive clothes, without food or snot or tears on them.

(Clothes I no longer fit into)

The limo took us out for an expensive dinner, we dined and drank and laughed. Then it took us to every bar or lounge where we knew the bartender, which was...every bar or lounge. We celebrated and were celebrated, we charmed and acquired people in our limo and had shooters named in our honour. We were freaking rock stars.

We ended up at a club where we danced all night and closed the place down. At one point I pressed my face into the chest of the man who would one day become the father of my child, and moaned drunkenly and melodramatically, "I'm not going to make it!"

I spent the next day in bed, and didn't emerge until 4pm. That legendary evening was hailed thereafter as "The Day My Friends Tried To Kill Me With Alcohol".

Today, this year, I blissfully slept in until the unheard-of hour of 8am. I dozed and listened to the murmur of voices, tiny feet dancing, toddler giggles.

I got out of bed and the three-foot-tall light of my life ran up to me with a small box. He tripped away, laughing, as I opened it. And then the six-foot-tall light of my life, who had followed his son, asked me to marry him.

I said, y'know, I'd think about it.

We had breakfast and I went to the gym. I had a nap. I went out for lunch with my best friend and my favorite short person, then played in the garden for the afternoon. We had a great dinner, a glass of wine.


(I'm just fucking with you. Of course I said YES. Duh.)