Wednesday, April 14, 2004

Time to get ill. I feel like you do when you've narrowly avoided a car crash. My heart is racing. My hands are shaking, I'm struggling to breathe calmly and I'm sucking on a cup of tea like it's the elixir of life itself. Why, may you ask, am I feeling so strange when I haven't even got out of my chair? Well, I've just sent The Boy an email telling him that, well, he is The Boy.

I didn't even mean to, it was just going to be an ordinary email. But then I thought to myself, "Mel, you are going to stay miserable as long as you don't tell him." I told my workmates (an invaluable source of moral support, fashion and celebrity gossip) and the looks on their faces, particularly the unadulterated horror I glimpsed in Dougie's eyes, did not bode well. To make things worse, Dougie's eyes are a similar colour to The Boy's.

I remember a while ago Shane saying that he felt amazingly relieved after telling all to his crush, even though the telling itself went badly. But I just feel incredibly anxious that I've fucked everything up. This may not be quite what the Beastie Boys meant by 'ill communication'.

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