While the heaving masses around me lie stricken with the winter vomiting bug, I’m just plain ol’ lovesick. That is, sick of not having someone special. I want chemistry. I want electricity. Not a 13-amp fuse type of love, but a full-on, CPR shock-your-heart-into-realising-you’ve-been-flatlining for-years, type of romance. Oh, for the honeymoon period of a relationship! Oh, the agony! Oh, the ecstasy! Oh, stop putting exclamation marks after everything, Jules!
Perhaps if I ask Santa very nicely, he’ll bring me a lover for Christmas. No, that’s what I thought. Best be content with my Barbie annual and a Walnut Whip then.