Somewhere there’s a dungeon, a dank and airless place with a heavy door that’s been nailed shut. We have decided to consign our respective timorous intellectual selves thereunto (where presumably they may eyeball each other suspiciously from their respective corners, or arm-wrestle for scraps of stale bread) while we get on with the fun part of confirming whether we like each other as much (so impossibly much) as it seems we do.

She’s coming to visit, the good Lord willin’ and the crick don’t rise, sometime very early in the new year.

And she’s worried that she’s going too fast for ME! That’s a good sign if I ever saw one. I’ve reassured her as best as I’m able. Perhaps when she sees me tell a thousand or so of you, gentle readers, that I can’t wait, she’ll believe me better.

I can’t wait.

{looking around my pit of a cave of a living space with dawning horror} “By Aphrodite’s dirty nightie, I need to start cleaning up around here!”