Was every married couple two children playing house? Did it just feel that way for us, or was it a pantomime for everyone? There was an endless supply of fictions to choose from, the facts of one not enough to make us lose faith in another. Pretending or daydreaming as a child had had such a prophetic quality, as though adult life could only ever confirm or diverge from fate. In my twenties I often thought about whether my teenage self would be impressed with my life. By my thirties I had remembered that my teenage self was very stupid.