Ten years. Yes, almost exactly. Biking to school I, all big-mouthed and cocky, sped past her on my racing bike, grasping at her jet-black plait. Me, away laughing.

At fifteen, a tinge of jealousy when she held hands with Norman? I would vehemently deny that.

Then those birthday parties. All joking and kissing games. Our first kiss was at one of those parties. Just a game, wasn’t it? Suddenly, for me, it wasn’t.

Infatuation, it’s called. At twenty, courageously I took her out. Then again. And again. And all doubts gone.

Down the aisle. Ten years exactly since that plait-pulling.