Mickey Mouse silhouette and swirls on upper back

Your mother says you have been pacing the back garden since Easter, so I am writing this down properly, the way your grandad taught us, in case the speeches go to pieces on the day. The Pavilion on the seafront was where I first met your Uncle Frank. He had a borrowed suit with the sleeves rolled twice and no idea what to do with his hands. The ballroom ceiling was painted with curls of gold and blue, and someone in the thirties had tucked little five-pointed stars among the scrollwork, and a round-eared head in the middle that the old caretaker swore was the moon in a good mood.

Frank spent the whole evening telling me it was a mouse. I told him it was a moon. We argued until the band packed up, and then he walked me the long way back along the prom, past the shelters and the kiosk with the striped awning, and that was that. Forty-one years of arguing about ceilings.

So here is my advice, and then I will leave you alone. Don't write your speech on the back of the order of service, the ink will run when your hands sweat. Let Priya say her piece first, she will make everyone cry and you can pick up the pieces. And when the band plays the slow one, dance with your new wife under whatever is over your heads, even if it is only the marquee lights and a sagging tent. Look up. Somebody always has painted something up there for you to argue about.

Love, Aunt Maud