Saturday, April 10, 2010


Home sick, again, and I jump quick online as I drink my soup and my orange juice, to find an e-mail from my beloved at work.

The heading: Bisous

[French for kisses]

The text: "For whenever you get them, sweetie. Rest and feel better, my little Camille."

[she dies, you know...]

My response: "Camille?! So I'm going to die, now? Well, thanks a lot! xxx"

And his response to mine:

"No, no, you're merely waxing thesbiasticaly. You are magnificent in your illness - pictorially and vocally - and spectacularly embody the ecstatic heights attained by the greatest Marguerites and Violettas of history: La Divine Sarah; the Divine Garbo; Callas, "la Divina". What are they compared to you, my love? Dust. No more than that. And dust that is only illuminated by the grace of your benevolent star-light. Ahhh....

Thus I salute you!"

Oh dear god, people. This is my husband. Could a woman want more?

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