I am an early bird, that’s one of my many curses. Regardless of how late, hammered or just plain exhausted I am when I get into that bed; I barely make it past 7.30 on a Saturday morning.

There was a particular Saturday morning where, as usual, I got up, and that uuuurrrge hit me out of nowhere, as it usually does… I turned to give my boyfriend a quick glance (Sound asleep, perfect! I knew I had at least two hours before he woke up). I hopped out of bed and sneaked across the creaky wooden floor, quietly closing the door behind me. Grabbing my newest prize DVD I headed straight for the DVD player.

Guiltily, I glanced over my shoulder before slotting it in, pressing Play, turning the sound WAY DOWN and cosying up on the couch, pulling the duvet over my lap.

Finally…. The film started.

I could not tear my eyes from the screen. Every moment, every movement had my undivided attention. I became so engrossed that I didn’t even hear the floor creak under his weight as he sleepily made his way from the bedroom to the living room behind me. Standing there, still in his underpants, he glanced from the screen to me wiping the tears from my eyes and gave a loud, exasperated sigh and threw his hands in the air… . “Oh my GOD!!! Not P.S. I Love You AGAIN!!??!! How many time have you WATCHED this?” and with an annoyed huff and a few mumbles I didn’t care to translate as he walked back out of the room.

“You wouldn’t understaaaaand…” I called feebly after him and giggled as I re-composed myself and came back down to earth. I took one last glance at Hilary Swank slowly singing I Love You Til The End to Gerard Butler’s ghost in a Karaoke bar and got up to start my normal day in real life – and of course, to avoid the inevitable smirks I would be getting for being a total wimp. P.S. I Love You is one of the most beautiful stories I have ever seen, a close second to The Notebook. And there are not a whole bunch of women out there who can disagree with me.

A good romance is like a woman’s equivalent to pornography.

It’s pure escapism. Men fantasize about unrealistic sex, women fantasize about unrealistic romance. We imagine ourselves as this beautiful, irresistible heroine with a charming hero who meets her and his entire life changes. Who looks at her as though the world would end if they never saw each other again. Who wants to know everything about her because she is just that captivating. Basically, the kind of unrealistic love that only exists in the first month of an actual relationship before all of our nasty little flaws spill out and the fact that we are only human is apparent.

Same way men imagine themselves getting onto a luxury bus of cowgirl cheerleaders who all cannot resist the very sight of them and basically go for a long series of enjoyable rides (very intentional pun).

Let a sister dream a little!