Eight years ago to the day I was invited to a party one Sunday afternoon. I didn’t know the hostess very well: we’d only met twice, at a Mercury Rev concert and a library, and we’d exchanged e-mail addresses. At the time, I was eight months into a surreal period of my life when I was happily learning to be a dad half of the time and energetically dispersing overdue wild oats the other half. That Sunday, I showered and bought some flowers and went.

The party was a buffet in a little courtyard in Stockholm’s Old Town, and the guests were many and colourful: largely young bright exchange students. There was this one really pretty Chinese girl, a journalist, with a big friendly smile and extremely crisp Swedish enunciation. She and I were the last to leave. Our hostess later told me that another guest had asked her, “You know, that guy who talked so much, and the Chinese girl — did they get it on?”

They did! We’ve been together since that day, and I just keep getting more and more crazy about that girl. Living with YuSie has taught me so much that I didn’t know, about China and the media and the fact that I’m a family man at heart. I got a lottery ticket that Sunday, and I won big time.

[More blog entries about love, anniversary; kärlek, jubileum.]

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Martin Rundkvist