You may need the sick bucket before you read the rest of this article. You see I am in the throes of young love. Yes I know I am not young but the relationship is and as such you do soppy things. I give you recent conversation with Hot Date.
Me ( clearly the soppy one ): What do you think of when you think of me?
HD: looks very puzzled
Me: Ok what images come into your head when you think of me?
No sooner had I said this I realised that was a devilish look that had crossed fleetingly across his mush and not a look of confusion that I mistook it for
Me - still ( I can talk the hind legs off a donkey ): So when I think of you I think of sport, healthiness, clean, and sunshine.
HD, looking crestfallen as I hadn't mentioned sex: that makes me sound very boring
Me: So What.Do.You.Think.Of .When. You.Think.Of. Me. ( Speaking slowly now as he doesn't look like he gets it and I am beginning to lose patience whilst beginning to be fearful of his answers )
HD: I think of Spain ( I am a cunning linguist of which he has recently been a lucky beneficiary ) Red Wine ( If our relationship should falter then my legacy to him will be the introduction of vino ) and a 12ft wardrobe. ( say what )
HD: You have a 12ft wardrobe.
I do not see a problem with that. Everything is hung up just as it should be. We have summer and winter, work and pleasure. We have shoes and boots, shelves for scarves and bags. Hangers for belts. Drawers for stuff that I forget about. Drawers for holiday documents and drawers for articles I have ripped out of magazines for inspiration for rooms I will never decorate. Drawers for the clothes that I am fearful I might one day grow back into so them there those fat pants will stay shoved to the back. I do not share my bedroom with anyone and therefore all that wardrobe space is mine. Mine I tell you all mine.
Me: What's wrong with that?
HD : Nothing. It's what might be in it that scares me.