OVER the last year I have felt a bit like a character in a sitcom.

Only it’s a very weird sitcom where you get married and, two months later, you’re kind of not again.

So actually it is not a sitcom at all. It’s just too dark. Black comedy?

A year ago I was absorbed in wedding stuff, distracted by blossom and ballet shoes.

Now I am in the throes of planning a party to mark the anniversary of my wedding.

Well I couldn’t stay at home, staring at the walls that day, could I?

To that end I have booked a hall, and am being bombarded with creative ideas to “help” me get over this milestone anniversary.

These include the ceremonial burning of various items, including a giant wicker man. A smelting of my wedding band. A Bring a Bachelor party.

Actually, they are all my friend’s suggestions; I am content with making black flowers out of tissue paper and doing clever things with ivy and glue.

You may think this shallow, or maybe just plain tacky. But I feel I need to mark this date, just the once. It will be my one and only commemoration of what never was.

I will surround myself with music and people, love and laughs and prove that it doesn’t take a husband to feel secure.

I have told the former LOML so he won't have a stroke when he reads this. He says he gets it.

My exceedingly creative, show business friend, who is currently seeking inspiration for my invitations, is trying to convince me to have a reverse Take Me Out show, where I will survey scores of single men, who will reveal their hidden talents to win my affections (please no).

My godmother says she will make me a cake (yes please) and another friend is concocting a musical medley to mark the moment (Joy Division anyone?) However we ‘celebrate’ though, at least I know that my family and friends will come up trumps for me, as they always do.

Oh, apart from the ones who think being in the Maldives, Cambodia or going to a Fleetwood Mac concert is more important. Bah.

Date: February 22. Dress code: Black.

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