Falling feels like flying
Until you hit the ground
And everything is beautiful
'Til you take a look around

I'm listening to Tom McRae and I realise the falling has stopped. It's not that I don't want to fall any further for my cute colleague. It's that I met two friends from the past last Thursday night, one of which used to be a boyfriend. The other one's the brother. And it's the brother that bothers me. I just can't get him out of my head. Lalala lala la lala.

It's like I'm frozen on my way down. If I see The Brother again soon - unlikely though he offered to give me shelter from the storm - I don't think I will let him go. But today I saw my colleague, his ironed beige trousers and Doctor Martin's shoes and thought about what a great catch he would be. For some reason I think weird clothes combinations host great personalities.

Where does all this impulsiveness lead to? Probably to making out on a Christmas party at work. Enter The Brother and I'm convinced the great neonlight on my forehead (blinking take me baby for my colleague) has gone. I feel relaxed and in control since I'm not free falling anymore. This feeling in combination with glühwein or any other alcoholic drink is lethal. On nights like those I turn into Henry, the protagonist in D.H. Lawrence's The Fox 'He was a huntsman in spirit, not a farmer, and not a soldier stuck in a regiment'.

No wonder I never look my age. I don't think my age either. I love it.