... and don't I know it.

On Tuesday evening, we were in an almost irritatingly buoyant mood, the two of us. Having eaten our fill of Italian food, we headed to the cinema to watch "Walk the line", a film which left us both with a warm feeling inside, despite the fact that the story was at times very troubled. We both felt the warmth independently but could sense that the other was feeling it too as we caught each other's smiling eyes at various points throughout the film.

As we walked out of the cinema with the closing credit music still ringing in our ears, he put his arm around me:

"You big-mouthed woman," he said.

"You long-legged, guitar-pickin' man," I replied in my very best "country" accent. We laughed and he squeezed me tighter.

As we walked up the path toward our house, we noticed that the stars were out in force. We stopped to just hold each other, right there in the middle of our front garden in the crisp, night air.

"I don't know why, but that film just made me realise how much you mean to me."

"Me too."

Why couldn't I have just held onto that? Why is it that by the time I got to this morning, the peak was long gone and I had descended into the seemingly inevitable trough. I don't understand the shadows which descend and oppress me with no warning. Hearing "Don't give up" on the iPod in the car on the way to work probably didn't help. By the time I'd got to the line: "Moved on to another town, tried hard to settle down...", my eyes were filled with tears. When left alone to contemplate, it seems that my default state of being is one of flakiness, fragility and, wouldn't you just know it, good old anxiety.

Maybe the people are right. The people who have suggested that I might need to talk to someone. A professional...

Or maybe I'm just ovulating...