Today is somebody's birthday.
Let me tell you a little about this somebody.
She's hilariously funny. She's smart and she's witty and so so perceptive. She calls me out when I'm being a dick, and she holds me when I cry and she holds me when I laugh and she rolls her eyes when I spam her inbox with You Yube videos of a certain attractive singing celebrity. She went all the way to Africa and took a photo of herself stood Under Milk Wood because I love Dylan Thomas. She makes the tallest cakes and the flattest scones and she always makes my ribena in the right sized glass. She knows me better than anybody else in the world and she gets me like nobody else does.
We share jokes and secrets and memories almost to the point of being an accidental clique of two: people tell us all the time how hard it is to be around us because we speak our own language, of half sentences and nonsensical chatter.
She likes giraffes and manatees and champagne cocktails and bacon fries even though she's a vegetarian and Wuthering Heights and Joey Lawrence and Harry Potter and she has more dvds than you can even imagine and she understands all about Billy from Ally McBeal and how nothing will ever be that sad. She dances with me to The Arctic Monkeys at weddings and she makes me write in paragraphs and she makes me stickers when I have to go to the dentist.
She isn't perfect though: she hates ginger and peanut butter and meat and sometimes she laughs at me til she cant breathe and she wants to re-read Breaking Dawn and she thinks Remus really truly loved Tonks and she once tried to drop a pen lid in my mouth when I was asleep and her feet are unreasonably small.
Happy birthday to you, Helen. You will always be my stupid person.