I am so tired. I didn’t sleep much last night because me and Mark stayed up until two-three in the morning to talk about what we’re going to do if we both get into Cambridge. There was a lot to talk about: the house, the car, us, Cambridge, science, the state of man, the nature of existence, our place in the universe, the beauty of math, and the impermanence of art.

Oh, and same-sex marriage as it relates to us. It’s just eight months left now. In February, we’ll have been together for 18 months. I can easily see that as “18 years”. We’ll have to get that sorted and fixed before we start in September. And we have to decide who is going to carry who over the threshold. I’d say me and him could wrestle for it, but he’s stronger than me so he’d win, unless I cheated – but I don’t think cheating over that would be a good start to a marriage. Would it?

It is patently unfair. I’m taller than him. I should be stronger. I’m the one that goes out and runs for miles and miles, while he’s slouching in the sofa in front of the telly. Just because he goes off every fortnight to lay bricks shouldn’t mean that when he flexes his biceps, he rips his shirt, while when I do it the local cellist comes by and says “Oh you found my string”.

I’m going to be a bad student, and forget about the homework tonight. I’m going to dive in behind Mark and push him out of the sofa, and stick the telly onto something that’s not sport. I think.