Recently I have been trying to think of the happiest day of my life. Last summer, on one of the short moon-tipped nights northern Scotland does so well. Hours spent in the garden leaked into a barbecue and fire pit with new friends and red wine. They’d brought spices from South Africa and we used them to season the steak.
It wasn’t a wedding or the birth of a child. It was one barbecue in a summer of barbecues. But we’d come out of lockdown and my sweet peas were having a good year. Things felt extra good, scrubbed clean of pandemic angst by the sun.
A whole day of happiness, though? That may be pushing it. I remember there being an argument (blame the
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