It was Christmas Time in London and waves of shoppers were pressing up and down the creaking old stairs of Liberty. I was on the hunt for decorations that would bring spirit to the gigantic Christmas tree that had just landed in our home, courtesy of Mr. McTavish, for whom nothing is ever quite big enough.

Towering over me he was, ever the avid shopper, quite the opposite of the image I’d had of him three years ago when I first saw his face on the dating app where I’d met him. For days, I had thought I’d pick up the phone to hear the Scottish accent of a rugged man whose passion would be to chop wood in his kilt and, like, carry me over his shoulder—which I was very much looking forward to.

Instead, here was my most urban fiancé, all absorbed in the choosing of Christmas decorations that—I have to confess—made my eyes pop. It came to the point where I had to tell him that, yes, Royal Family shaped bobbles are adorable, but could you stop being so British for a second?

How had I ended up here, debating ornaments at Liberty with this fair-eyed gentleman?

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