Jack
Shit. There's press outside my flat and my mobile has been ringing non-stop since I got home last night. Everyone wants to know who Rhona is, because it was pretty damn clear from our conversation that we know each other very, very well. Unbelievably, it's just scrolled across the rolling TV news tickertape -- have they got nothing else to talk about? This wouldn't happen at any other time of the year. Scotland has officially gone into a Christmas love story meltdown, and unlikely as it would seem, I'm playing Hugh Grant.
My mobile rings yet again, and this time I answer it because it's my boss.
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2017: 23 December
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