"I fucking love you."
Or that should be "Jy fushing ludge vooo."
My nostrils are assalted by stale beer and day old sweat.
He is trying to tell me something else.
"I genuinely have no idea about people you left. You can let people go mental when they have a reliable whatnot of doing whatnot. You meet people and are like, fucking, 'I love you' then you stick fingers in their nose and their ears and you learn to play bass guitar and its all good."
After two weeks of flat out working in preparation for a pitch today the husband went straight to the pub at four after the meeting having not had breakfast or lunch.
After stripping off his suit and dancing around the living room in his shirt, new pants and socks with the dog he is now passed out on the bed. (I have a picture of the former but feel it is maybe not fair to share).
And my stomach hurts from laughing so much.
At you darling, at you. Not with you.
(I fucking love you too though and I wonder, when this pops up on your reader tomorrow morning, if you'll have any recollection of this).