Have you met Mr. H?

I am feeling rather smug writing this post. When I began blogging a few months ago, Mr. H rolled his eyes at me and called me - 'What was it, darling?'- oh that's right, a fruitloop! But he did find he was getting some reprieve from my ramblings. He then discovered he was getting the odd mention on my blog, and asked if I would read my posts to him when I publish them. This was when my smuggy smirk started to appear on my smuggy face.

Last week, after reading a post to Mr. H, he says: "You haven't mentioned me for a while. Maybe you should introduce me. Officially." It turns out I'm not the only one who likes attention.

"Are you serious?" says me. "This is my blog." Yes, he was serious. Some turnaround, hey. So, let's humour him.

Meet Mr. H.

Awww. He chose this pic because he thought he looked cool!

We met at Derby Day ten years ago. He picked me a yellow rose (thanks Flemington Racecourse!), and then invited himself, his flatmate, his cousin and his girlfriend around for dinner for later that week. Quite forward for someone who claims to be very shy.

It then took three weeks before we first kissed, and to this day, we still argue over who kissed who first.

Mr. H used to sport a mullet, and drive a panel van. Bogan!

Noice! I've cheated with a recent photo because I didn't have one from the eighties (that's a wig. Mr. H is now balding.)

I love Mr. H's dancing. He is quite worldly and has taught me all the moves to the sprinkler, the shopping trolley, and the lawn mower. He once agreed to come to tango classes with me, only to later confess that he only said that to advance his chances with me!

Mr. H is six foot five, and I am five foot three. We would have looked ridiculous dancing the tango together.

But despite his inner boganess, his lack of hair, and the fact I have to stand on a step-ladder to kiss him, Mr. H is divine in every single way I want a man to be. Even when he calls me a fruit-loop.