As a child, Mary Morstan watched the great royal weddings. She dreamed of someday wearing the princess dress and a walk down the aisle to a tall, dark, handsome man.

Time passed. Finding the prince proved problematic. Mary didn't like clubbing, rugby or football. The men at church were either married or more into obey than honor and cherish. Her small circle of now mostly married girlfriends said, "Don't worry. It will happen when you least expect it." Molly, though, kept telling her to try the supermarket.

At 30, Mary thought more about owning and running her own business, a nursery school, than she did of nuptial bliss.

One morning, she went round the corner to the market to pick up a few things for work. The man ahead of her couldn't get the machine to work. Uncharacteristically, rather than be annoyed, she sorted it out for him. He seemed so lost and alone.

They exchanged names, met for tea, had dinner at Angelo's and then pasta at his cluttered flat in Baker Street. Finally, he moved in with her. Months later, happier than she'd ever been, they were at the Registry Office, he in drab army khaki, she is an off-the-rack dress from Harrods. The lovely and loving man beside her wasn't tall and dark; he was short and blond.