Jack
Amanda's angling for a ring for Christmas. She's dropped every hint in the book, from leaving magazines open on the pertinent pages to studiously watching Don't Tell the Bride every Thursday, and now we're walking through town on the coldest Saturday afternoon of the year and she's stopped to gaze into a jeweller's window.
It's become a difficult subject since she first mooted the idea of marriage in Norway, and I'm not really sure how to address it.
Now she's pointing out one with a massive diamond -- fuck, is that really the price! It looks like a weapon, not a piece of jewellery.
'Shall we go and get drunk?' I say, looking at the pub across the road.
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2016: 17 December
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