Colin Diamond: I bet she's never farted in front of you, has she? Has she? No- I thought not. I mean, that's not romantic, is it? You just want the perfume clouds, the romance, the magicalness of it all- the false crap. Well, I've got news for you, Sonny Jim- that's not love. Love's hard work, hard graft. Love can be murder. Love is watching what she wants to watch on the tely, taking her the papers and a cup of tea on a Sunday morning in bed and inquiring to how she might be feeling, "You all right, Liz?" whilst plumping up her pillows. And she might get irritated by that, but you gotta take it on the chin and broad shoulders, because she's the queen, and you're the bee- the Dad. And so what if you cook the dinner and you get no thanks for it? Don't do it if you expect thanks. That's not why you do it. And yes, you forgot the dripping tap for ten years, and then one day- for whatever reason, fuck knows why- you get off your fat ass and you find yourself under the sink with a spanner in your hand and you're smiling like fuck- because you know it's gonna please her. And if she don't notice it, she don't notice it- it don't matter. It's fixed. It's plumbed. It's the maintenance of a marriage, the nuts and bolts, the nitty gritty, the reality- that's life, that's love, it ain't easy- nobody ever said it was gonna be easy. It's fucking hard work. But, you know, love can be... lovely. One day, you'll be in the bathroom, having a shave in front of the mirror, all soap on your face, and you feel her approaching you. She's hung a pair of tights, hanging on the radiator. And as she leaves, she pats you on the bum and gives you a tiny smile- almost not a smile- but a smile nevertheless. And it will mean the world to you- the whole. incredible world- the fucking universe.
