In our past lives as a newly living together couple, we had a bit of a habit of having dinner out on a Sunday night. A bit of an end of weekend treat before the working week started.
And more often than not we would go to the Italian restaurant that was round the corner from my mum and dads.
We started to nickname it Italian Sunday.
A restaurant that we have visited to celebrate almost every milestone in my life.
The restaurant I ate in with my friends when we were 15, sharing diet coke and pizzas.
Where we headed to every other Friday night at college because the wine was cheap and as strong as rocket fuel.
The place I celebrated my 18th birthday with my family and a very young husband to be.
The restaurant where we almost got kicked out of for being a bit too loud celebrating the end of our A-levels.
The only place we considered eating on Christmas Eve for around 10 years, largely because you didn’t need to book and (again) the wine was cheap.
The night we found out we were expecting O we had dinner here, before heading off to Asda for a Clearblue Digital (just to make sure).
And as I started my maternity leave we ate here on a very warm October night, for the last time as just a couple.
Every time we enter the restaurant, it is filled with memories.
Meals with best friends and wonderful family.
Every table holds a story.
And now we go as a threesome.
All set to make new memories.