I had two questions on Formspring about how Terry and I met, so I decided to answer those first :

How did you and Terry meet and fall in love?

How did you and your husband meet? You seem like a perfect couple – Do you ever argue?! Haha.

You know, I’d love to be able to answer this with some romantic, tear-jerker of a story. Probably one involving a chance encounter, a railway station platform, and me wearing a kicky little hat. Because every time I entertain this fantasy, it’s always the 1940s for some reason. Moving on…

The reality, as always, is much more prosaic than that, and like most people we know, Terry and I met at work. When I say “like most people we know”, I mean that literally, by the way: most of the people Terry and I know met their partners in exactly the same place I met Terry. Which was a call centre. No one’s ever going to want to make a movie out of this, are they?

So, the call centre - or the “Phone Farm” as I always used to think of it. Terry and I both worked the weekend shift there, in order to help pay our respective ways through university. And then when we left university, we stayed on, to pay our way through the Benefit counter, and the shoe department at House of Fraser. (Can you guess which one of us I’m referring to here? Yes, Terry really needs to ease up on that cosmetics habit of his!)

I started work at the Phone Farm first, and by the time Terry joined the company, I had already worked my way up to the giddy heights of “Personal Trainer”, which meant that I was responsible for moulding the minds of the constant influx of new recruits (Which could be anything from 10 – 40 people per week at busy periods. It was – and is – a huge organisation.). That’s why, to this day, the Phone Farm has a large number of staff who believe whistling is banned AT ALL TIMES, and who would not, under any circumstances, use the phrase “just sayin’”.

Although I was to come to hate and detest the Phone Farm more than I would ever have believed possible, at that time, I had yet to realise that the job was slowly SUCKING THE SOUL RIGHT OUT OF MY BODY, and was weirdly ambitious about it. I was a Personal Trainer now, but by God, one day I might become an ‘Experienced Operator’ (snigger) or even a Team Leader! (I did, in fact, become a Team Leader, but by that point I had lost all hope and accepted the job only because it came with internet access, which the rest of the staff were forbidden, on pain of death.) I also had this weird idea that when I finally graduated, I would probably become a high-flying business woman of some kind, and that the Phone Farm would provide a good grounding for this. I have absolutely no idea WHY I thought this, because there is nothing I would hate more than being a high-flying business woman, but I kept getting this metal image of myself, wearing a snappy little business suit and talking excitedly into a cellphone, while striding out of my office on the top floor of a New York skyscraper. I was an absolute idiot, I really was.

Anyway! I was young and I was stupid, and I was ALL ABOUT being a personal trainer, and upholding the laws of the Phone Farm. And then, one day, Terry arrived. “Of all the call centres, in all the world, you hadta walk into this one,” I said, with a drawl. (No, you’re right, I didn’t. I totally made that up. Sorry.) It would be great if I could say here that the moment our eyes met across a crowded call centre, I collapsed into a swoon and knew he was The One. But I didn’t. Actually? It was dislike at (almost) first sight. For both of us, I’m sure.

I still remember my first ever conversation with Terry. He called me over from my important job of pacing up and down in high heels and “supervising” the other new recruits, (The high heels weren’t a requirement of the job, by the way. That was just a requirement I placed upon myself.) and asked me if he could phone his friend, who worked in another department of the Phone Farm.

“WHAT?” I said, amazed at the sheer cheek of the man. “You’re not allowed PERSONAL CALLS! You don’t get to phone a friend! What do you think this is, Who Wants to be a Millionaire?”

(OK, OK, I didn’t say that last bit either. I just thought of it later. Much later, that is: I mean, I don’t think WWTBAM was even ON back then. This would’ve been a much more interesting post if I HAD been quick with the smart comebacks, though.)

At that, Terry calmly picked up the phone and called his friend. And I marched over to my boss and told her I couldn’t possibly work with That Guy, because That Guy wouldn’t listen to a word I said, had totally failed to recognise my supreme authority as Personal-Trainer-Who-Would-One-Day-Have-a-Glass-Topped-Table-in-Her-New-York-Office, and OMG, wasn’t That Guy SO ANNOYING? And my boss laughed and said to give him a chance, maybe he wouldn’t turn out to be so bad. She’s like the old, wise woman in this tale, who’s constantly saying weirdly prophetic things, except she wasn’t actually old, and I think that was the only prophetic thing she ever said to me. Well, that and “Amber, I think  you’re just about to spill that coffee down your…oh.”

So, after those Wise Words, you’re probably expecting me to say I came into work the next day, and Terry was bathed in a halo of golden light, and that was when I knew he was The One. Or even that we became good friends, and it was totally like When Harry Met Sally, but without the bit in the restaurant. But no. It took several more years for Terry and I to even be able to be in the same room as each other without bickering, and although we worked in the same department for some of those years, we didn’t really talk much. Or, you know, at all. Sometimes to this day I will look over at him and think, “Wow, I can’t believe I actually married That Guy! How trippy is that?”

In fact, Terry and I probably wouldn’t have gotten together at all if it hadn’t been for the Phone Farm’s policy of always seating people next to someone they hated. I’m not joking about this: they would change the seating plan every few weeks, to make sure you didn’t get too friendly with the person sitting next to you, because that would mean you might actually start ENJOYING work, and can you imagine the anarchy that would break out if people were having FUN? By this point, Terry and I were both “managers”. It was a small department, but we had still avoided ever becoming friends, so naturally the people in charge decided to make us sit next to each other. And THAT was their big mistake! Because Terry and I got together just to spite them, mwahaha!

Well, no, we didn’t. We did start to talk, though, and then we started to talk some more, and eventually we talked so much that we were all, “Hey, why don’t we swap email addresses? Just so we can make sure both of our email addresses are working properly?” Then we started emailing. Then we emailed some more. During the week, I was working in my first job as a journalist, and every morning I would come in to work and find a sweet little email from Terry waiting for me: often with funny illustrations, which he would draw in MS Paint. (Look, he was a student, he couldn’t afford Photoshop!) This is how he won me over: it was all because of the MS Paint.

The rest, as they say, is history. And it’s a chapter of history that involves a work night out, too many vodka shots, and Shania Twain singing You’re Still the One. I think that chapter is probably best left unwritten.

Hey, remember that time the low battery warning on our carbon monoxide detector started frantically PEEPING in the middle of the night, and we couldn’t work out whether it was the friendly “Hey-diddly-ho, neighbour, my batteries are staring to run low, might want to think about replacing them soon!” warning, or the more ominous “OMFG, you are all going to die!” warning, so Terry just removed the batteries altogether and went back to sleep, while I lay awake all night waiting for death to come and claim me? And then I started writing really long, run-on sentences about carbon monoxide detectors all the time, and life was never the same again?

Well, it happened again.

At 3am.

* heavy sigh *

Once again we awoke to the frantic PEEP! of the alarm. Once again we went through the whole “Are we going to die? Is that the low battery warning? Where are the spare batteries? Did you use up all the spare batteries in your camera again, and forget to recharge them? Should we open a window? Hey, what time is it, anyway? Are we DEAD? Have you seen my sunglasses?” thing.

At 3am.

And once again, having tried every single battery in the house and been unable to stop the ear-splitting “PEEP! PEEP!” of the carbon monoxide detector, Terry simply removed the batteries altogether, and went back to sleep.

And I lay awake all night wondering if we were going to die.

You know what annoys me most about all of this, though? Other than the fear of certain death, obviously? Well, we’ve had that carbon monoxide detector for as long as we’ve had this house now. We’ve had this house for… longer than I want to think about, actually. And in all that time, the carbon monoxide detector has NEVER run out of batteries during the day-time, when we’d be in our right minds (Well, Terry would be in his right mind, anyway. I haven’t been in my right mind since… I haven’t ever been in my right mind.) and able to deal with it in a calm and measured fashion. NEVER. Not once. It has always, ALWAYS happened in the middle of the freaking night, and I swear I’m not exaggerating. This time.

Also, in all that time, we have NEVER learned to distinguish between the low-battery warning and the “DEATH! DEATH! INCOMING! DEATH!” warning. Never. (By “we”, I obviously mean “I” here, just before Terry gets all over my comments section protesting his innocence.) And that is because those two warnings? Are ONE AND THE SAME. I am sure of it. I HATE that freaking carbon monoxide detector. It’s obvious to me that the thing is just being an ass now. There are some inanimate objects that I love, and will carry in my heart forever. And there are some that are clearly EVIL, and are out to get me, and are probably possessed with the spirit of some old medieval witch, upon whose grave our house now stands, or something like that. Yes, carbon monoxide detector, I AM looking at you. (Radiator in the living room, I’m looking at you too.)

Can you tell I didn’t get much sleep last night? Can you?

The Morning After

Well, today was the day the mouse traps in our attic were scheduled to be inspected by The Man From the Council – or The Mouse Man, as he shall henceforth be known. Or maybe The Evil Mouse Killing Man, Enemy of Mice All Over the Land? Maybe that would be better?

From this you will gather than I am rooting for the mice here. Mice, I am ON YOUR SIDE! I’m having the ‘Team Mouse!’ t-shirts printed up as we speak. On Saturday morning, as I lay drifting in and out of sleep, I heard the little critters resume their scratching above my head. It was horrible. They were up there, happily eating my clothes, and not realising they were but moments from certain death! How could I lie there and do nothing, while all mousekind was at risk? How will I look Mickey in the eye next time I go to the Magic Kingdom, HOW?

Well, readers, I did nothing. But only because Terry was there at the time, and Terry is firmly on Team Man-From-the-Council. But I felt bad about those mice. And I still feel bad about them, even although….

*drumroll*

…THEY MAY NOT ACTUALLY BE MICE!

“Hmm,” said the man from the council, scratching his head after his inspection of our attic.  (At least, I’d imagine he was scratching his head. I don’t actually KNOW this for sure, on account of how I was still in my dressing gown when he arrived, and was listening to this conversation from the office, with my ear pressed against the door, and a hysterical Rubinman in my arms. Rubin hates the Mouse Man. I think it’s safe to say that he is also on Team Mouse.) “It’s strange,” said Mouse Man. “There are mouse droppings up there… but there are no mice in the traps. Which is unusual. We would normally expect to have a few of them by now. And the funny thing is…”

I pressed my ear even closer to the door. There was a FUNNY thing about the mice in the attic? Awesome!

“The funny thing is, whatever it is up there…”

WAIT! “Whatever it is up there“? We’re dealing with a “Whatever” now, rather than a mouse? GOD.

“…has eaten a hole in the top of one of the traps, but hasn’t taken the bait. We’d normally associate that with a much bigger animal.”

A MUCH BIGGER ANIMAL! Like a vampire, you mean? Or an International Man of Mystery, say?

“There’s definitely SOMETHING up there,” concluded Mouse Man cheerfully. “We just need to find out what it is!” And with that he headed off to murder mice somewhere else.

So. As I see it, there are a couple of options:

1. It’s a huge, mutant mouse, which is too big to get into the trap. Good for it. You go, Mutant Mouseman!

2. There are ordinary mice up there. But there is ALSO some kind of other, dastardly creature which eats mice for breakfast. Not so keen on this option, actually.

3.  Yeah, it’s NIGEL. And his months, nay, years, of living on the run have made him feral, so not only is he eating my clothes, he’s ALSO eating my mice. And when he finally tires of that – or eats all the mice in all the world – he will descend… and EAT OUR BRAINS.

Either that or we just have some particularly clever mice. Hmm.

I wish this could be a more interesting newsflash for you, folks, but the things that live in our attic? Yeah, they’re mice. Not vampires. Not Nigel, the International Man of Mystery Next Door. Not even Shergar, or Lord Lucan, or some other famously missing person/animal, with a massive reward on their head.

Just mice.

This has been confirmed by a nice man from the council, who we finally called in last week, after another night spent listening to the scratching noises coming from directly above our head, and thinking about THAT scene in Paranormal Activity. (With the attic? And the going into the attic? And the DEMON?) . He came to investigate the situation today, and, of course, after waiting all morning for his arrival, TNMFTC arrived when I was in the shower, meaning that Terry had to deal with him alone, while I spent the duration of his visit trapped in the bathroom, which was a preferable option to running the gauntlet of the hall, dressed only in my ratty old dressing gown and a towel turban. (The hatch for the attic is directly outside the bathroom door. It wouldn’t have been pleasant for the poor man.)

I passed the time by re-organising the bathroom cabinet, and very nice it looks too. Rubin, meanwhile, passed the time by pretending that TNMFTC was a dastardly villain, sent to skin us alive and eat our brains for breakfast. I expect TNMFTC was absolutely terrified, which is a shame given that he now has to return every week, until our guests are gone, and by “gone”, I mean… well, you know.

(He put down traps. Apparently this is how our council deals with such things. I’m a bit upset about it, to be honest, because I had pictured the little mice being taken off to live out the rest of their lives in some sunny meadow somewhere. But I was trapped in the bathroom at the time, so the NMFTC got his way. Actually, maybe Rubin was onto something there?)

Anyway, one mystery is solved, and we now know that Nigel is NOT living in our attic. So where IS HE?

I’ve been ill. I’ve been ill in a “having to take time off work to flop uselessly on the couch surrounded by tissues and lemsip” kind of ill. A “can’t stop talking about how bad I feel” kind of way. So I haven’t been blogging. I can’t write when I’m ill: or I can, but I just write a bunch of maudlin, woe-is-me rubbish. Sometimes I even put in song lyrics and everything, like an emo kid. Instead of all that, then, I bring you an email I received yesterday:

From: Hot Looks Lover
Sent: 21 January 2010 17:22
To: Magic Amber
Subject: i love hot looks

hi,

   i’m [name removed] and i love to paint my nails especially with hot looks nail varnish.  can’t wait for more colours to come out, i just love your products and the names.

                    from [removed] XXX

Ps. i think you should do a plum colour with sparkles in and call it revive at midnight. 

Oh, damn! Can you believe I COMPLETELY forgot I was the owner of a nail polish brand? Which I apparently named, er, “Hot Looks“. (Note to self: stop drinking.) Now that I’ve been reminded of this totally neglected aspect of my career, however, I will endeavor to get off my lazy ass and make that bad boy a success! Under my expert guidance, Hot Looks will become a nail polish brand to be reckoned with! I will begin by making a plum colour with sparkles in it. I think I will call it “Revive at Midnight”. (No one ask me WHAT is being revived at midnight, OK? Because I have no idea. Vampires, maybe? The thing that lives in my attic?)

I also received an email yesterday that opened with the line, “We would like to send you some of our eyelashes.” Until I realised they were talking about FALSE eyelashes, I was totally freaked out…

I woke up with a lurgy this morning: sore throat, runny nose, general feeling of, “Oh crap, January done kicked me in the ass AGAIN.” Great!

Actually, that’s not quite true: I woke up in the middle of the night with the lurgy. My throat felt like sandpaper, and my trusty bottle of water was still on my desk in the office, where I’d left it, so I was forced to run the gauntlet of the hall, and all of the DEMONS that live in it  (No more demon noises to report, by the way. We’re taking the “if we just stick our heads in this handy pile of sand, here, it’ll be like it never happened!”) to retrieve it. It was at that point that I more or less abandoned all plans for the day, including my plan to return to the gym for THE FIRST TIME SINCE DECEMBER. Instead, I just returned to bed, and didn’t get up until… well, some considerable time later. I wish I could hibernate for the winter, like a little animal. It seems to be my natural inclination at this time of year.

In slightly better news, when I did finally wake up, it was to the sound of the postman bringing me my new shoes:

Yes, they still have the label on the sole, because I was too lazy/lurgy-filled to remove it. I probbaly won’t be able to wear them until about May, though, so that’ll give me time to painstakinginly pick it off, cursing and whining as I do so. (Why must they stick horrible labels on the soles of my shoes, WHY?)

Is it nearly Spring yet?

Remember our attic-dwelling “visitor” of last year? The one who made noises in the walls and went on a chewin’ spree among the bags of old clothes and other junk up there?

No, we didn’t either. We’d had the best of intentions about calling the council and asking them to come and investigate our “visitor”, but it happened right before we went on holiday, and then by the time we got back, and had Christmas, and then New Year, and the snow came, and blah,blah, blah, we’d forgotten all about the Madthing in the Attic. And there were no more noises to remind us, either.

Until this week.

On Tuesday night I went to bed as normal, only to be rudely awoken a few hours later by what sounded like a large animal trying to scratch its way through the ceiling and get me. “Uh-oh, Shaggy!” I thought, “It’s grown! It’s been up there all the time, feeding on my old clothes, and growing fat and wicked. OMG!”

I woke Terry, so he could lie awake and listen to the giant creature slithering along the ceiling too. “You know,” he said after a while. “I’m not so sure that IS a giant creature. I think it could just be snow falling off the roof.”

I wasn’t totally convinced by this. I was sure I’d heard the “snow” making scratching noises. And whispering, “Amber! Amber! I’m coming to get yoooooouuuu!” But then again, was I sure? It was late. I was sleepy. Maybe it WAS just snow sliding off the roof after all? I drifted off to sleep, to dream of… well, to dream of being trapped inside an airplane that was driving along the motorway in the snow, actually, but the point is, by the time morning came, I’d forgotten all about our mysterious visitor/snow.

Until last night.

Last night we got into bed and I was just drifting off to sleep when Terry spoke. “You know,” he said. “I’ve been thinking. I’m not so sure those noises last night WERE snow.” He paused. “In fact,” he said, “I don’t know WHAT the hell those noises were. Maybe a demon, though?”

Well, that was it for me. Because last weekend? Last weekend we watched Paranormal Activity. And as anyone who’s seen the movie will probably understand, the LAST THING you want after that is to start hearing strange noises in your house in the middle of the night. Especially when you were just about to get up and use the bathroom, but now you can’t, because your husband has just suggested that, hey, there may be a DEMON lurking in your home!

Sadly for me, I’d actually managed to fulfill my “drink two litres of water per day” resolution for once. I’d drunk most of this water before bed, though, in a stupid-ass “whoops, I forgot to drink my two litres of water again, I will just do it now!” move. I had to visit the bathroom more than once last night. And every time I did, I stood trembling behind the door for a few seconds, convinced that when I opened it, I would see something coming up the stairs. Or just hear it, which would possibly be worse, although I’d prefer not to put that theory to the test. Then I’d have to do that “run to the bedroom with your eyes closed, and pull the covers over your head instantly, because if you can’t see it, it can’t scare you!” thing. Ah, scary movies, how I love you!

Anyway. In the cold light of day we are once again convinced that our Tuesday night visitor was either:

a) a member of the animal kingdom, whether it be rat, mouse or squirrel. A bit annoying, but unlikely to steal our souls while we’re asleep.

b) snow falling off the roof. This doesn’t explain the earlier occurrences, obviously, because there was no snow then, but these noises were a little different from the first ones, so perhaps our animal visitor has left us, and now we’re just hearing snow.

Or it could be Nigel.

More news as we have it, folks…

Do you think we could maybe just start again with this whole “2010″ thing? Say, next week, maybe? Is next week good for everyone? Because so far this year isn’t really working out for me. It’s mostly because of the horrible weather. I’ve always viewed winter as a kind of obstacle in the  year – something like a dragon, say, which you have to slay before you can emerge triumphant onto the sunny plains of Spring, but this year the dragon is seriously pissed, and I have the feeling it might just emerge the victor.

In other words: I’m feeling a bit flat. I hesitate to mention this here, because I know I’m just opening myself up to a whole bunch of “some people don’t even HAVE weather!” comments, and trust me: I know how lucky I am. I’m just suffering a case of the Januarys, and going by my Twitter feed, I somehow don’t think I’m the only one. I, of course, have it better than most in that I don’t have to deal with the daily struggle to get to work when most of the roads are impassable and the public transport is non-existent, but there’s a general feeling of gloom in the air at the moment, and while that’s more or less the norm for me during the winter, it does seem worse than usual right now.

So, my proposal is that we write off the first two weeks of 2010 and start again on Monday. By then I’m hoping the snow will have undergone a Melting; the roads will be back to normal, I’ll be able to wear heels again without breaking my neck, will have spent some time in front of my S.A.D. lamp, and will have returned to the gym, for the first time in… umm, let’s just say a while. I will start again on Monday, and by then, the dragon will be dead, and January and I will be back on speaking terms. I hope.

Now, who’s with me?

Well, it’s January 7th, and I’m just going to hold my hands up here and admit that I haven’t left the house for five days now. Other than to take this photo, that is:

Obligatory "Look, I am standing in snow!" photo

Did you know it’s been SNOWING here in the UK, readers? Ha! What am I saying? Of COURSE you knew! Because for the past few weeks, there’s been only one topic of conversation amongst us Brits. Can you guess what it is? Yes? It’s SNOW! Someone please shoot me…

It started snowing while Terry and I were on holiday. That’s almost four weeks ago now, for those of you playing along at home. It basically hasn’t stopped since, which is actually pretty unusual for this part of the world. Sure, it’s always cold (and I DO mean “always”), but snow is quite rare, and when it does fall, it’s normally gone within a day or two, much to my joy. This time, though? This time it decided to stick around, see in the New Year with us, maybe try and ruin Christmas… stupid old SNOW.

When our flight landed at Glasgow airport, there wasn’t much snow in evidence. “Ha!” we thought. “We have missed the worst of it! Media was exaggerating! Parents were exaggerating! Airline which kept us stranded for 17 hours was exaggerating!” Then we drove into our street, and straight into a huge pile of SNOW, which we remained stuck in for the next 30 minutes, until our kind neighbour finally took pity on us and came to dig us out. Which just goes to show what WE knew, eh?

Two days later, we pulled out of the driveway to head to my parents’ house for Christmas, and instantly got stuck in the SNOW. Our neighbour helped push us out. Then we drove to my parents’ house and got stuck in THEIR driveway My dad helped push us out. Then? We drove home. And got stuck in our driveway. Our neighbour…actually, you know what? Just fill in the rest of this yourself, OK?  My point is: it’s not been much fun. Because this country isn’t really used to prolonged periods of heavy snow, we just aren’t prepared for it. Like, AT ALL. This means that our street still hasn’t been cleared since that initial snowfall while we were away. A couple of feet of snow has now turned into solid ice, and is absolutely treacherous to walk on. So we…. haven’t been. Walking, that is. We’ve not been having our rubbish bins emptied either, because the council (Who’ve failed to clear the road) now say they can’t access the street. One bin WAS finally emptied today, but the other’s getting on for four weeks now, and, you know, that’s not much fun, especially not over Christmas.

The upshot of all of this is that we’re currently more or less housebound. We CAN leave the house, but it takes such a long time to dig the car out, deal with the horrible conditions on the main roads (lots of abandoned cars lying around because people get stuck and can’t move them) plus the small matter of having to walk on a virtual ice-rink, that it barely seems worth the trouble. Of course, in our case, this isn’t too big a deal, because we’re fortunate enough to be able to work from home (I don’t think I’ve ever been more grateful for that fact than I am this week!), but I really pity the poor people who’re basically having to risk life and limb every morning just to get to work. Did I mention how much I hate the SNOW? And the winter in general? They’re saying it’s the worst winter in 40 years, and it feels a bit like being in an End of the World movie.

My only comfort in all of this is the time I’ve spent planning our next holiday, to somewhere where there is no SNOW. Well, that and my new boots:

My in-laws, meanwhile, travelled home from Greece yesterday. They WERE supposed to be flying from Athens to London Heathrow, and getting a connecting flight to Edinburgh, but the connecting flight was cancelled (due to SNOW), so they had to re-book for another, much later flight, which would have involved an overnight stay at Heathrow. I say WOULD have because unfortunately THAT flight was cancelled too.  Then their flight from Athens to London had to be diverted to….

Glasgow! This was really, really lucky for them, because Glasgow is obviously a whole lot closer to home than London is, but not so lucky for the Londoners, obviously. Remember that Melting Terry predicted last year? I really hope it’s coming soon.

Roll on Springtime…

I keep forgetting that today isn’t just the last day of the year: it’s the last day of the decade, and the first decade of the new millennium at that. It was the decade in which I got my first job, bought my first house, married my first – um, I mean my ONLY husband, and brought home my first ever puppy, who is now a full-grown wolf. A decade of firsts, then, and not all of them good ones – we could’ve done without the kidney transplant interlude, obviously, but still: pretty good decade.

I feel I should say more about all of this. Something profound. Something that would sum up the decade and all it has meant to us in a pithy little sentence. Instead, here is a picture of my dog:

(Note: that’s Terry’s modified Christmas party hat, by the way – he’s not just wearing a random red bandanna. Well, he kind of is, but it WAS Christmas…)

Tonight we’re forgoing the usual maudlin “watching other people have fun on TV” experience, and heading into Edinburgh with my parents to have dinner with Erin and David  before watching the fireworks from the castle. If we’re lucky, we may even be able to hear the lonesome piper play his sad lament in person, rather than just watching him on TV, like we do every other year! In other words, we’re going out with a bang: or rather, a series of bangs, whizzes and flashes.

Whatever you’re doing tonight, I hope you have a good one: and Terry, Rubin and I all wish you a fabulous 2010!