Love. It can be so difficult to say, and yet it’s used frequently. We often use love as a verb – nothing special, just another way to describe our desire for material objects, or our fickle infatuation with people we just met, or our approval of the latest hip restaurant. Less often do we use it as a noun – when it is special, a way of declaring our deep devotion. When used casually, love rolls off the tongue, fizzing into oblivion like sherbet; other times – more honest times – it sticks in the throat, a hard lump that can choke for hours.
That’s the thing about love: its power. In an instant, love can go from casual to serious; one minute you’re having fun, laughing and smiling, the next you’re ridden with teen-like angst and heartache, vulnerable, a target for rejection.
Four little letters – l-o-v-e – that, individually, aren’t frightening, but strung together they create something heart-burstingly enormous.
I’m Wearing: jeans, Debenhams (customised with a bread knife); shoes, Rainbow Club.
