My sister kissed my husband in front of thirty people at her own anniversary party and called it a joke. Her husband had a wrapped present in his hands and an envelope she had never opened.

Romy went upstairs at about four and did not come back down.

My mother reorganised the pudding table.

My children — nine and six — ate ice cream on a rug and had, by every account including their own, an excellent day, which I am more grateful for than almost anything else in this.

And I stood in that garden holding a serving dish for what my cousin Enfys says was about four minutes before anybody took it off me.

At about half five, my father went and knocked on his own son-in-law’s back door and stood there for a while, and then came back and said, to nobody: “He’s all right. He says thank you for coming.”

And at ten to six, thirty-one people carried the chairs in, stacked them, washed up in a kitchen with the gift box still on the side, and went home.

What it had actually been.