The secret to a happy life, said journalist Katharine Whitehorn, is a selective memory. Katharine Whitehorn is a heroine of mine, not least because she's a razor sharp octagenarian who spends her days sipping gin by the fire and being agony aunt for Saga magazine. If that is my future, bring it on.
Oh how I wish I had a selective memory of Friday night, so that I could forget screaming blue murder at MC for a badly phrased drunken line about me needing to go home - splitting up with him at least 8 or 9 times on the way back to my flat before throwing him a duvet (for the sofa) and ordering him to see himself out in the morning. We're still together - despite my best efforts. I was a psychodrunk on friday - a walking advert for the perils of binge boozing. I adore the guy, why do I treat him so badly sometimes?
However I wish I had a rather less selective memory of the gibberish I write here, so that when on Friday morning I finally buckled and sent the link to MC, he wouldn't have had the dubious pleasure of reading the innards of our entire relationship as seen by me. I really am my own worst enemy.