I can’t believe I’m doing this, it’s bloody insane is what it is. Dancing and having a picnic on a rooftop in Wales, in December. It’s flaming freezing, and I’m having the time of my life. Maybe I should consider getting myself certified.
I’d wondered if I’d done the right thing buying her that dress, it hardly makes up for the fact that I screwed up the whole flying thing for her.
But looking at her right now, laughing and smiling, I’m so bloody glad I didn’t listen to myself, ‘cause she looks amazing.
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look a red dress again without thinking of her.
And that’s the problem. I don’t do this romance stuff, the whole flowers, hearts and puppy dogs crap, that’s for all those other poor sods who think that sort of stuff actually means something.
Yet here I am with some old song playing on a record player, dancing and drinking champagne, looking out at Cardiff all lit up for Christmas, and I’ve never been happier than I am right now.
I’ve known her what? Five, six days? And all I can think is, however long I’m with her, it’s never going to be enough.
What the hell is she doing to me? I’m happy, sad, scared, I’m all over the place.
I think maybe I love her, I mean really love her, not just the sort of ‘I’d love to get you in my bed’ kind of love, I know that type, I’ve done it often enough.
But this, this is the real deal, the real stupid idiotic kind of love that’s going to screw you up, rip out you heart and stomp all over it.
I have no idea what I’m going to do about it, if I can do anything about it, hell, I don’t even know if I want to, and that’s so bloody scary.
You know what though, as long as I’ve got her, I don’t think I care.