Paper plate love

Monday night was the hottest damn night (temperature wise, ahem) that I've ever experienced.

The flat was a sauna, my forehead was sweating so profusely that it felt like a free facial.

Unlike normal people, we don't own a fan and couldn't open the windows. You see, the economist in him is reluctant to spend money on a "wind blowing thing" during this cash-strapped month, and the arachnophobe in me is paranoid of spiders crawling into our room and biting me to death. (Yes, death. I've read that such things have happened).

I did what any girl would do: I whined, and moaned and bitched about the weather, dropping not-so-subtle hints about how the oven-like heat was his fault.

He was more proactive though: he ransacked the kitchen cupboards for a paper plate and used it to cool me down. I think I swooned then, even after years of being with him. He spent a good half hour flicking it to and fro, like a geisha with an oriental fan, until I eventually fell asleep.

Now that's love. Bless.