And then there were two

I have news.

On Saturday night, as we sipped champagne and snorted Bolivian cocaine from the naked body of a dusky exotic beauty, the Boy du Jour asked me to move in with him. I laughed casually, flicked my long golden hair back out of my face and told him that I supposed it might be quite fun.

Well... some of the above is not strictly speaking true. In fact it happened over Sunday lunch at La Tasca in Angel, and I was so surprised/excited/scared/happy that I pretty much burst into tears on the spot. (And I'm brunette.)

Luckily the Boy knows me well enough to understand that the floods of tears meant yes, and as a result from the middle of April my shiny new bachelorette pad will be acquiring a second resident. At first it's just a four week trial to see how it goes; it may turn out that we can't stand that much of each other, in which case he'll still have his house in Croydon to retreat to and we can cut our losses before it spoils the rest of the relationship. And if it does work... well, that's a kettle of fish which we'll deal with when we get there.

I've only told a small handful of people so far. I like having it as my secret; it's like installing insulation against the rest of the week and the rest of the world. Me and the Boy, sharing the flat! How cool is that?

I think I'm going to be sick.