Finally it has happened to me, right in front of my face, my feelings can’t describe it.

My feelings can’t describe it; but CC Peniston’s can. So that’s a relief.

Because, my god, these feelings are all like, new, and stuff and frankly I’m confused by them. The other day I arrived at work with half a loaf of bread in my hand. It wasn’t even my bread and I certainly didn’t need it at work. I looked down, utterly perplexed by its existence; then I took it home again. I have also recently: run a red light (I mean properly just didn’t see it), dropped a dress size (by accident), eaten fruit (bleurgh), attempted press-ups (don’t) and most shocking of all: Been Nice to My Mother.

And it’s the Being Nice thing that is really noticeable. Falling in love has never made me nice before. It’s made me distracted, selfish and paranoid while ultimately leading me up the garden path to complacency and fat. All love leads to fat in the end as far as I can tell. But never nice. And last night I bought him a present. ME! And it’s not even his birthday.

NORMAL me is the kind of horrible cold hearted no-right-to-call-herself-a-woman cow who panic-makes her Valentine’s cards. Not, as you might suspect, out of a right-on eco sensibility (although I totes pretended it was) but because I couldn’t even get it together to buy a card from the garage on my way home despite weeks of 40ft flashing, neon signposts directing me towards the correct way to express my love at this hallowed time of year.

IN LOVE me is "shmoopy". Apparently. And when he pointed this out ON MY FACEBOOK PAGE, I didn’t even mind.

Gah! It won’t last, probably.