It's Diana's birthday on Saturday, and I doubt that I'm going to get much time on the computer between now and Sunday. But I just wanted to mark its occasion here, because she's my baby.
I can't say how much I love her.
There's a point when words just tumble away into the loamy stuff they are, and all you've got left are the feelings, and they're tucked inside, and you know that, no matter what you do or say or write, you're never going to adequately express them.
We've been together since 1996, and it has been the most wonderful part of my life. There have been some dreadful years, some terrible battles with illness, but we've weathered them, and I've learnt more about myself, and the nature of love, then I could have thought possible.
I think that's the gift you give each other in a long and loving relationship the opportunity of mutual discovery, the unfolding of the self. It's a painful, wonderful, fragile thing. It's a balloon that you have constructed out of tissue paper, and half-expressed expectations, and then clambered into, not knowing where it's going to end up or how; not even knowing if it's going to fly.
And you never do.
That's life, that's love. And you never stop forgetting that and discovering it again.
Diana has made my life richer in every way that counts. She's supported me. She's comforted me. She's never let me get too arrogant or despondent. She's made me laugh. And she has loved me ceaselessly and fiercely, and in such a way that all the things I am cynical about, all the things I doubt, I do not doubt in love.
I hope I have done the same, because I love her – as terribly,deeply and inadequately as a thing made of meat and bone and wishes can.
Happy Birthday, Diana.