Today was Richard’s wedding day.

He put on his best shirt, suit and shoes. For the first time in years he stood in front of  a mirror, trying to get his tie done right. Facing the mirror, he closed his eyes and fingered the tie, trying to picture its blueness. The assistant had said it exactly matched the colour of Richard’s eyes. He wrapped it around his neck and knotted it once, then twice. There was no way of being entirely sure that the final result was satisfactory. Yet he had a feeling he could not go wrong. Not today.

As he donned his coat and scarf by the front door he tried to imagine what it would be like in a few hours. Could this really be his last few minutes in the house alone, as a single man?
 
 He stepped outside into a chilly February morning and headed off to church. Feeling the pavement with his stick, he was pleased to note its clutter-free state.  He took this as a good omen. It was usually on a Saturday morning that he tripped over children’s toys or, once, rubbish bins forgotten out since the day before. He would have been even more pleased had he been able to note that the pavements and streets were gritted overnight to safeguard against slipping on the snow.

A few steps down the road he heard people calling out to one other. He could distinguish children’s voices and, less audibly, a man’s. He heard someone approaching him from the forecourt of an unseen white crowned house. Automatically, he set his face into a smile – a survival technique rather than a friendly gesture in his case.

A disembodied voice greeted him, a bit louder than necessary. ‘’ Morning, Richard. It’s James here from number 12.’’, it said. With apparent embarrassment, the voice offered to help Richard cross the street.

The neighbour smelled of shaving gel and coffee as Richard’s hand found his and allowed it to lead the way, awkwardly, across the street.