Seventeen years ago I was sitting on the beach on Ilha Grande – an island in Brazil – reading a trashy novel, unable to go hiking with my friend thanks to a dodgy seafood pizza I’d eaten. I was joined on the sand by some guy called Dave – an art teacher who was holidaying alone for two weeks. I was two months into an entire year away.
We chatted about where we lived (randomly, roads away from each other in East London), what we wanted in life (he wanted two kids, I didn’t see myself with any) and, as he made me laugh, I remember the fleeting, ridiculous thought, ‘Maybe this is who I’ll marry?’
And – spoiler alert –short days, six years later that’s exactly the person he ended up being.
