I can tell, by your eyes, that you've probably been crying for ever, dear reader.
I've been up, down, round and round - and then through the loop. I am human macramé. And as I said to Andrew Ridgeley in Paris, August 1988, "What's the point in pretending to be a length of rope if you can't get knotted?" From metaphor to cliché in one easy step. Yay.
The Prozac made me feel like my feet were in blocks of concrete and my head in the clouds. Simply put, I honestly felt like I might have fallen off of the planet if the wind had blown. A very bizarre sensation, I can tell you. Then, thanks to Barry from the Lake District, I've had a dreadful chest infection to put up with. I'm still talking like Bonnie Tyler sings (though without the mid-Atlantic Welsh accent) and trying to cough up a gold watch.
It's all gone horribly wrong, dear reader.
But there are some good things in the world. Things to celebrate:
Ian and I moved in together on this day in 2000. Seven years is a long time, my lamb, and there's not an itch to be had. We're just going to stay in tonight, eat spaghetti, drink wine and talk about the time we've been together. My favourite part (though, obviously, this was before we moved in together) was the day we first met. I got into Ian's car to go over to his flat here in Edinburgh, he reached across and kissed me. Right on the lips. I was really taken by surprise and what a fabulous surprise!
I am more in love with my delicious boyfriend today than ever before and am so licky* to have him. Here's to the next seven years, my little maid. What a shame it can't be seven decades. I expect we'll be long dead by then.
*What a Freudian slip! I've left licky as is, just so you can see how my torrid little mind works, dear reader. Of course, I should have typed lucky.