I am reading a wonderfully written, compelling book about Jewish partisans who harried German forces in eastern Europe by my favourite author, Primo Levi.
I gush regularly to Mr B about how much I love his writing (Primo that is, not Mr B, though Mr B can write very well too). I tell him what is happening in my book, wonderful words and phrases as I read them, and mostly how much I'm enjoying it.I don't mind if Mr B cares about what I'm saying, I just have to say it. I'm sure you know what I mean.
But Mr B never gushes about the books he reads, well apart from the Alistair Campbell diaries, but that's another story. I never know what his books are about, if he enjoys them, nothing.
So I last night I badgered him to tell me about his book. It's Enigma by Robert Harris, a Second World War mystery novel. He is loving it.
So there we lay, reading our World War II books - mine a story of resistance and Mr B's a story of the UK code breakers at Bletchley.
I never imagined that it would be my love of History that led me to my husband. I never imagined that I would share my interest so closely with someone.
Happy 6 month anniversary for yesterday Mr B!