Just because there is the slightest of minutest of whisper-thin slivers of a chance that my n&d will happen upon my previous post and get all misconstruey... It is not a stone-cold declaration of love absolute. (Although being both near and dear, my n&d is well aware of my thoughts concerning The Brooker, or, as he is known in our abode, "your boyfriend!", said in the most whiny, sarcastic manner it is possible to affect at such a tender age.) It's just that when reading such an article and being confronted with an image of a lovelorn man missing his moment completely, I can't help but create a little Hollywood-style happy ending to the tale (speeding cab, frantic knocking on door, sudden realisation of mutual attraction on the street, probably, let's face it, in the pouring rain) featuring, well, me.
Not because I want to be in that situation, as that would mean NOT being in my current situation, which would rather dramatically rend me asunder. It's just that having the happy stable relationship, blah blah blah, means that I will never be in that stomach-lurching, heart-fluttering, oh-my-god-is-he-going-to-kiss-me? Or-am-I-just-being-drunk-and-overconfident? state of mind again, without encountering some rather large morality issues. (Well, hopefully, anyway. There's a good chance this rather pathetic explanation will have me out on my ear'ole by Xmas) But is that a terrible thing, or a thing to be celebrated? Will there ever come a time where I am so in need of that kind of excitement again that I will be tempted to stray, philander, or indeed become a certain CB's pathological stalker?
The answer, of course, is unequivocally no, absolutely not. The benefits of the perma-boyf far and above outweigh any sort of minor thrill of the chase, and if you don't mind, I will take my leave of this train of thought and march swiftly back into safer, ranting-at-the telly-based territory.
A postscript. To those who choose to have their own little firework display in their back garden, replete with bangers and crackers and noisey-noise noise, at 11:45pm, right in the middle of a residential area, when I have to get up early for work on a Sunday, and are possibly the same people who recently had a karaoke party in their garden till 2am with the noise cranked up to Wembley Stadium levels and whose star performer was a screeching Amy Winehouse fan or possibly a cat in a mangle, really, truly, and I mean this with all sincerity, fuck right off.