I'm not good with disclosing myself. It's not that I won't tell you all about my intestinal parasites, the oscillations of my uterus, and the three day beetroot diet of '99 (good times), it's just that when it comes to Matters of the Heart I am discretion with a capital D, discretion in the Masonic vault guarded by three-headed sabre-toothed Swiss bankers sense of discretion. I am a veritable clam. I am an encrypted stone buried three kilometres beneath Mt Kilimanjaro in a lead-lined sea-chest. That's right, I am the opening chapter of a Dan Brown novel.
All that's by way of not getting to the point, which point is that I am now exhuming my inner life to announce that through processes mysterious and wonderful, I have contracted an alliance with the dearest boy in the world (I refer to critically-acclaimed globally-renowned internetian of letters, TimT), and we are, as I speak, in the process of merging our empires. Or not quite as I speak, because he is presently at work, and I am about to go out for dumplings with friends, but nowish. I.e., I have been living amongst his books (6000 or so) but not his bookshelves; his soap is now here, but not his shower recess, etc. Life is messy and kind of glorious, a bit like my hair, which I trimmed last week in an ill-conceived attempt to look like a rambutan, and despite which this extraordinary person still seems to love me. Sigh.
Awright, I won't go on. You can safely infer about 70,000% more happiness than the above paragraph indicates.