This morning found us driving through the Buckinghamshire badlands, returning from an overnight stay after helping friends celebrate their wedding.
As I concentrated on giving stern looks to the drivers of various Nissan Micras seemingly welded to the middle lane of the M40, Katie gently slumbered in the passenger seat. And I let my mind wander.
On this morning, precisely 13 years ago today, I was struggling with a neckerchief-type arrangement and looking suspiciously at the frock-coat I was about to wear. I think a wing-collared shirt was involved, too. I don't normally wear clothing that involves hyphens. But it was the morning of my wedding day. I should have thought myself lucky. Katie was having to wear a headdress that would attract attention from Amnesty International if employed in less-enlightened countries.
13 is an inauspicious number, they say. But I feel lucky. I'm lucky to have spent the last 13 years married to someone who puts up with me.
Let's face it, I'm no George Clooney. I have the waist of a Giant Redwood. When concentrating, I sometimes forget to breathe. I can be a moody bugger at times. Sorry, make that "I am" and "always". I get frustrated at Sainsburys when they have a "10 items or less" aisle, audibly correcting one of the country's largest retailers on their poor grammar. ("10 items or fewer" in case you were wondering). I snore. Seriously, I sound like someone kick-starting an Airbus when in bed. I spend way too much time staring at the screen of a computer.
And it has to be said - I am, from time to time, extravagantly flatulent.
But despite all that, I've found someone who accepts all my faults. And this morning, waking up next to her in the Smallest Hotel Bed in Christendom, I felt as lucky as I did 13 years ago.
Love you K. But as I'm not too good with words, I'm getting a little help from The Man: