Believe it or not, Mr P. and I have been going out together a year today.
A lot has happened in the last twelve months. We’d been friends for a couple of years and he’d supported me through some difficult times but neither of us could have begun to imagine where 2012 was going to take us.
We’d only been together for three months when he told me he thought I had a lump on my chest. (He’d actually spotted it a few weeks earlier but wasn’t sure how to tell me). Anyway, being my usual pre-occupied self – I nodded, said I’d phone the doctor, and then promptly forgot about it.
Fortunately, some weeks later and just before Christmas, he mentioned it again – more forcibly. I genuinely had completely forgotten. It wasn’t an avoidance tactic on my part, I really hadn't been that worried. But, to keep him happy, I did phone and make an appointment.
And thank God, I did. If he hadn’t prompted me to go, I really have no idea how long it would have been before (a) I noticed, and (b) I actually did something about it ... it’s a very scary thought!
But, the fact is, he did notice. And I am getting treatment. And here we are, twelve months later, having survived probably one of the most tumultuous first years to a relationship that you could throw at anyone.
Don't get me wrong, it has been bloody hairy at times as we've veered from one emotional watershed to another. It's put a strain on both of us in so many ways.
He genuinely has seen me ‘warts and all’: at my most distressed and vulnerable and – unsurprisingly to anyone who knows me well – my most cantankerous. We’ve laughed together, cried together and absolutely everything in-between. He’s a very special person.
So, Happy Anniversary, Mr P. Here's looking forward to another twelve months: may they be healthier, happier and much less eventful.