We are walking in a different city, tipping our heads right back to catch a glimpse of the magnificent rooftops skimming the sky, pointing out beautiful old-fashioned shop signs, trying to act like locals by walking at the right speed, on the right side of the pavement.

"Marry me?" R says, reading out a scrawl of one-dimensional spray art on a wall in front of us. It's nice that the city speaks our language, or we'd be lost.

"It would be a no from me, if the person who wrote that puts as little effort into marriage as they do into graffiti," I say.

Was it a live spray-paint proposal, or did he or she go out in the dark of night to spray those words, leading their lover out on to the street the next morning for an answer? And if so, how could you say no with something so indelible, so public?

The once-white words have grown dirty, dusty, so I'm guessing they've been there longer than my marriage to R. It has been nine years today. We are walking for miles in celebration of our time together. It feels longer, perhaps because I feel so old (though I'm technically not), traipsing around with knees that are age-inappropriately creaky and that ache in flat shoes.

"Would you? I mean, would you marry me still?"

I often resist answering these sorts of question, because although I am a keen talker, they are pointless. With all we know now, how would we change what we did in the past? I really don't think I'd change anything, because I'm most comfortable and familiar with where I am, and if anything had been altered then how would I be sure that I'd have all the great things I do now? My children, healthy parents, friendships, work. And R.

"Yes. Yes, I think I would," I reply.

It's not spoken with the round-mouthed certainty that romance fiction would demand, but it's a definite yes.

I don't tell R, of course, that I spent three years in my teens trying to lose my virginity, another two trying to get a boyfriend who lasted longer than a week, and, after that, another eight years trying to find a husband. I probably seem like the least feminist person ever. But I don't have to fight my corner. I am a feminist, and those desires are things I still remember as vividly as the pain caused by splitting my nose open as a young child. Yes, it's hard to understand why I wanted that intimacy so much, why I craved those relationships so deeply, but the truth is, I did, and I still sort of do.

I also don't tell R that he was the third person along the line that I was set to marry. The first two never got further than a proposal and a period where I used the unsightly word "fiancee" with pride. I think I gave everyone a fright when I presented my first true love as the one I was going to settle down with, have children with. He was lovely, but I wasn't even old enough to drive.

And the second was a joke. I blame the full moon on the night we met, and the fact that I managed to seek out the only man who was more fixated on marriage than I was. Of course we decided to get hitched five days later, and broke up two months after that when I realised he was agoraphobic and we couldn't bear the sight of one another. If my sister is being a cow, she reminds me of this relationship and I physically demonstrate what it would be like to die of shame.

So R was the only real suitor, even if I did have designs on him by the time he'd set foot into my house. I adored his parents, he loved mine, and they were happy enough with the idea of us, which helped. One morning in bed, R asked if I'd marry him, and I said yes, and after that I had major reservations and he probably did too. But we continued with the idea of marriage, wondering if it was normal to be denied that elusive something of which everyone speaks, but that we had not really experienced between us.

But certainly we love each other more than we did back then, and the spark appears every now and then as something far more enduring – a warming heart-swell that is full of love – when I least expect it, for example when R's stuffing the children's damp shoes with newspaper after they've been in the rain.

Together nearly 11 years, married for nine, we stride past more graffiti and walk into a deli. We order coffee and two cream cheese and lox bagels. In our hands, the bagels look like huge wedding rings, and we stuff them into our hungry mouths and toast the future with a fishy kiss. And they said romance was dead.