Last Friday Anita offered to come to London and spend a few days helping me through the impending crisis. I thanked her profusely, but I explained that I did not want her to come over because I was afraid we could only get confused after a few days together. She just got married, too. And then, by way of arguments against her visit, I told her what I would wish to do with her:

I love you. I would wish to make love to you. I would wish to spend all the time in bed with you. I would kiss you, caress you, lick you, fuck you, sniff you, squeeze you. I would simply go mad next to you, in you.

By the way, my words sound much more poetic in Serbo-Croatian than in English. Anyway, this morning I found no response from her, and so I sent her a short message: “Have I hurt you, my love?” I must admit I was truly worried, too, for Anita means a great deal to me. “My love,” she responded almost immediately, “all your arguments only buttress my case for visiting you as soon as possible.” There is no-one like my little wife!