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?