"Our wedding anniversaries are cursed, I vote we forget presents"

Wednesday night, upstairs, and my husband is resurrecting his Spiderman Scuttle - something to do with muscle flexion, I seem to remember - which involves scampering sideways, like a crab, back and forth across our bouncy floor-boards so that the bed shakes.

I am in bed, shaking.

“Shit,” my husband says, setting his alarm for the morning, “it’s the 22nd next week.”