Paul McCartney must be the eternal optimist.
Many a man would have shrunk into a corner screaming from the sanatorium of marriage after getting it so very wrong about Heather Mills.
He’d thought he was tying the knot with a brave, determined, humanitarian soul; a woman beautiful inside and out. Instead, he ended up in a deeply unhappy and acrimonious divorce with an ex intent on taking him to the cleaner’s.
How must he have questioned his judgement in women after that?
Most men once bitten, and by a far lesser vixen than Heather, fight shy of commitment ever after (unlike women, who have an amazing propensity for picking themselves up and getting back out there, heart in hand, no matter how much of a villain the last man they gave it to turned out to be).
But McCartney managed to close the book on the dark, satanic Mills chapter – a relationship referred to by his friends as “a mental aberration”.
He found a woman he could trust again - someone worthy of slipping into his lovely Linda’s shoes.
And ever the romantic fool on the hill (how could a lyricist be anything less?) he realised that at 69, he didn’t want to simply live with her. It was wed to her that he wanted to be.
Nancy must be some woman. She didn’t just restore his faith in love and his own sense of judgement, she gave him back his dignity and his belief in the marital happily ever after it was snatched from him twice.
As they married on Sunday, though, the spectre of Heather still seemed omnipresent to me. And not only because her – their – daughter was one of the flowergirls (how did dad win that war, I wonder?)
Honest, I half-expected to spot Heather lurking in the crowds outside Marylebone Town Hall, drawn there by a control-freakish urge to check on Beatrice, her unceasing desire to bag a bit of the limelight and the overwhelming need to scrutinise every inch of her demure, elegant successor through gritted teeth.
I imagined the spectre at the feast clad in some weird trouser suit, her bitterness masked behind dark glasses, wishing she’d been a bit cannier while she still had she had her meal ticket eating out of the palm of her hand.
Then a second mental image popped up; Heather home alone, scanning through her fat investment portfolio and consoling herself with the very consolable fact that, even though she’s now just small fries again, she got £24 million out of being a Big Mac for just six teeny years.