The wedding toast, in your own words.

I'm Callum. I fix locks for a living, and I met Owen fifteen years ago at five-a-side football, where he was the worst goalkeeper any league has ever permitted to keep playing. He let in everything. We kept him in goal purely because he made losing feel like a night out. We came bottom of that league three seasons running and not one of us minded, because Owen treated every six nil thrashing like we'd just won something, and somehow you believed him.

Now, the confession. About eight years ago Owen locked himself out of his own flat at one in the morning. He rang me, because I'm a locksmith, which he reminds people is the only practical reason anyone keeps me around. I drove over half asleep, let him back in, and he was so grateful he insisted I take a spare key, so this would never happen again. I have that key to this day. He has called me to let him in four more times since, because every single time, he has locked the spare key inside the flat along with his own.

That is Owen in one drawer. The man cannot hold onto a key to save his life. What he can hold onto is people. In fifteen years I have never once seen him let go of a single person who mattered to him, even the ones who probably deserved it. He collects friends the way the rest of us collect odd socks, and he keeps every one.

Here's the part I actually came up here to say. Four years ago my dad died, suddenly, and I went very quiet, which the people who know me will tell you is not my natural setting. Owen didn't send a card. He didn't say the right words, because there are no right words and he knew it. What he did was turn up at my door every Tuesday for two months with a bag of chips and absolutely no agenda. We'd sit, we'd eat, we'd watch the football, we'd barely talk. He just was not going to let me sit in that flat on my own. He let himself in, obviously, because by then I'd given him a key as well, and he's never once locked that one inside anything, which tells you exactly how much it mattered to him.

Then Ana came along, and I clocked it the first night I met her. Ana is the only person I have ever seen who can find Owen's keys faster than Owen can lose them. She doesn't nag him about it. She just quietly worked out his three hiding spots and now produces the keys from thin air like a magician while he's still patting his pockets. I watched her do it at their flat, mid-conversation, without looking, and I thought, this is the one. She found the system the rest of us gave up on.

Owen, you are the worst goalkeeper I have ever met and the best friend I will ever have, and I've stopped expecting those two things to make sense. You let everyone in, and the world is warmer for it.

Ana, you're marrying a man who will lose his keys every day for the rest of your life and never once lose you. Hang onto him. You clearly already know how.

Everyone, on your feet, glasses up. To Owen and Ana. May you always get back inside, may the door always be open, and may there always be a spare key that one of you, at least, remembers where you put.