I met my husband 13 years ago today, in a tiny, dark nightclub in the West End of London.

I was on my own, having left my friends in another club in Chelsea (awful music), in search of tunes I could enjoying dancing to.  DH was with his friend, A.  Because I was on my own, I looked to join a sane-looking group on the dance floor to avoid attention from sleazy men, and so husband-to-be, A and I spent several happy hours jumping up and down together to Pulp, Shed 7, James and the Levellers.

Afterwards I suggested that the three of us go for a coffee and it was there, at 3am in a late-night cafe on the Charing Cross Road, that I first glimpsed the brilliance and humour that caused me to fall in love with my future husband.  (It was his kindness, which I saw later, that sealed the deal, but that’s another story.)

Later, as we shivered on Oxford Street waiting for night buses back to our respective homes, we discovered that we were both moving house the next day (closer into London – me to Little Venice, DH to Wimbledon).  That we had each chosen to dance til the early hours on the day before moving was not only an auspicious synchronicity but also, in retrospect, a promising sign of shared values.  Thirteen years on we have a few more responsibilities, but making time for what we enjoy remains high up on the list of what’s important to us not only as a couple, but now, as a family.

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