For a month, I rode some kind of relaxed sex galleon around London, like a lady pirate – remembering, again, how every conversation with a member of the opposite sex carries with it that tiny, atom-small, atomic-bright possibility: ‘Hello. Are you it?

And every Thursday, I would invite over Pete from Melody Maker, cook him soup and tell him all these stories – ‘So I rang Room Service, and asked for a steak sandwich, and a pair of men’s pants’ – while we played records, and cried laughing.

Read a whole section about Caitlin’s wedding from How To Be a Woman at the Mail on Sunday.

‘Oh!’ I said, waking up. ‘I’m in love! I’m in love with Pete.’ I looked around the flat. ‘He’s what’s not here.’