Normally I’m not a sit down and spend a large chunk of an evening watching telly kind of person.
There are always things to do! Things that my husband and sons think some invisible person does. Things such as food, washing, ironing, cleaning etc.
Things that don’t get done while we’re out at work. Things that I seem to manage to do as well as work.
Since the clock struck nine on Monday, June 3, however, I have sent my co-habitees into a confusing world of ‘do it yourself’.
While they wonder why the hell a bomb has gone off in their comfy lives, I immerse myself in the glorious celebration of beauty and amour that is Love Island.
So involved am I that the far-too-premature departure of the gorgeous Lucie has had me pining for her return, and for Tommy Fury to come to his senses and realise that SHE, not Molly-Mae, is the girl of his dreams.
Don’t even get me started on Tommy. Tommy is gorgeous, loving, kind, honest – an Adonis and an absolute gentleman.
Yes, I’m always slightly appalled that they all have to share the same – rather lovely, rather long, rather narrow bedroom (where did that gorgeous pink-piped bed linen hail from, I wonder?); the lack of privacy would drive me mad.
And the toilet habits? And the toilet needs? I bet they’re storing up poos like they’re going out of fashion.
The closeness of it all, the brazen transition from one partner to the next, the buzz and crackle of sexual chemistry, the hurt of the dumped watching the dumper ‘crack on’… with someone else.
It’s like watching an Attenborough film with two-legged creatures that speak and sometimes, if true-love strikes, mate.
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