Yesterday morning I was flipping through the newspaper while I was sorting school-bags and lunches at the kitchen bench. I came across an article about a survey of Britons who had declared that Jane Eyre's Mr Rochester was the most romantic character in literature. I scoffed to Hubby that he was nowhere near the lead for that title, indeed Mr Darcy was my ultimate winner. Hubby astonished me by remarking that Darcy was "arrogant, aloof and up himself" - oh I wasn't astonished by the sentiment, Darcy is after all each and every one of those things, rather I was astounded that Hubby, Mr I-Don't-Read-If-I-Can-Possibly-Help-It-And-I-Definitely-Don't-Read-Fancy-Literature-Type-Stuff, knew that about him.
After closing my gaping jaw, I agreed with him but said that Darcy was still a million times better than Rochester. As I told Hubby, Rochester kept his deranged wife in the attic. Hubby's reply? "He was lucky to have an attic. I have to keep mine in the kitchen." With that he gave me the cheekiest wink you can imagine and then dear reader, we fell about the place laughing. Seriously, belly-aching, child-scaring, laughter. That's love.