I Might As Well Face It, I’m A Victim Of Love

I was going to write about Celebrity Big Brother this morning.  I thought Vinnie was the star of last night’s show.  Partly because he said the best thing I’ve heard all year (bearing in mind it is only January 16th): of Nicola: ‘She doesn’t know whether it’s Wednesday or Wembley.’  Partly because he played the Alpha Male so nicely; and partly because he fell off a chair and later tripped as he walked into the snug, but still looked cool.

However, I am not going to talk to you about those things after all –  because my husband loves me.  I came down this morning to find bunches of red heart balloons inscribed with I love you, inside bigger, white balloons; attached to balloon sticks; jutting out of the kitchen roll holder and the dishes cupboard.  Aah! I thought; opened the cupboard door, and a thousand of my favourite mugs crashed to the kitchen floor, bouncing off the kitchen counter and scattering wet tea bags everywhere.  As I cleared up pottery shards with damp kitchen roll – doing a back limbo as I tore off the sheets, to dodge the rotating weapons of love destruction – I wished that sometimes my husband didn’t love me so much.

Not!

 

 

Proof that you don't need money to show your love

I can’t show you a picture of the other bunch because they were burst by low-flying cups.