And Emin, a Wikipedia stalk tells us, is the son of Aras Agalarov and a two billion dollar inheritance. Simply put: he’s a big fucking deal. So with renewed interest, because Emin’s kinda attractive in a Westernised-son-of-an-oligarch / expensive watch / great clothes way, we watch Eamon ooh and aah at this ridiculously big house cracking jokes about needing an army of cleaners to upkeep it or something, we don’t really listen, and Emin is all “I’m never home” but not in a “I’m rich dude” way but in an almost sad “There’s just me in this bubble of privilege” kinda way. And just as we’re slowly falling in love with him he tells us he’s all alone because his ex-wife, the President of Azerbaijan’s daughter or something, up and left him and took his two boys out of his life but the world keeps turning and his music career helps him get by you know?
So I wake up pretty sleep deprived and pissed off mostly because Cody (as we'll now call DL because it's a name evocative of the all-American dream and he'd like that) has developed two sleeping positions in the two years we've been together: the swastika and crucifix, which leave me cold and clinging to the my side of the bed six nights a week. So I resolve that when we eventually do settle on a house of our own I want two double beds side by side so that we can become the quentisential 50s couple, apart but fucking well rested.
Friday. Which could be the start of something pretty major depending on your "living for the weekend" outlook / your work ethic.