Last night I stayed up through the hours finishing David Nicholls' novel . It was a perfect stormy night for reading and the endless rain and dribble of water outside in the roily dark encouraged me not to sleep but to read, read, read.
And it got me to thinking about unrequited love. Of course it did. Just at the part when the story made me weep. I stared out of the window across the shed roof to the vegetable patch I have done nothing with and I thought, 'Oh no - am I Emma Morley/Mayhew?'
She is northern, and difficult, yet ... o o o dear.
I closed the book. 'Unrequited love stinks,' I thought. I felt very sad for Emma Morley/Mayhew.
And Dexter, I suppose I fell for him too.