I am inexpressably happy, typing away and listening to my Lastfm station, which is playing a gorgeous moody mix of...er, mostly 1970s and early 80s punk and post-punk from Australia. I feel alive!
But suddenly I am crestfallen. Nay, distraught.
"Why do I have the musical taste of a fifty-year-old man?" I say to H. He has been working at the kitchen table, creating a sort of lightsaber thingie for his bike out of a cold cathode light (I know, right? He is a GENIUS. Hawt!!).
For a moment I think maybe he hasn't heard me. Then he nods.
"A bitter fifty-year-old man," he says, patiently and without looking up.