Tesco's Guy phones.
"Happy birthday, you cow. Meet you at the funfair at 3.30?" he says.
"Ok," I squeak. "Are you SURE you want to go on the perilously high swing seat ride thing?"
"For sure. I'll be shitting myself, mind. But I'm not doing the ice skating unless you go on that - that was the deal, remember?"
We meet by the perilously high swing seat ride thing. He hands me a card - it is addressed to 'You cow' - and smothers me in birthday hug.
Since we split up in July, on those rare occasions I've been in Cardiff we've been hanging out together pretty regularly, and nothing much has changed, apart from we don't do the naughty stuff anymore, except for that one time after a night on the Stella but that doesn't count because we were drunk.
I swear he's the only thing that's kept me sane this year.
We go on the perilously high swing seat ride thing. He pays, because it's my birthday.
As it ascends to 60m (that's 196.850394 feet, folks), I become literally frozen with fear.
"I'm too frightened to move," I inform Tesco's Guy. "I'm too frightened even to swear."
"Jesusfuckingchristthisishigh. It'sabitfuckinghigh," he says. "Did you see the Millennium Stadium yet?"
"I can only look straight ahead," I say. "I'm too frightened to move my eyeballs."
Gallantly, he puts a protective arm round me, but quickly withdraws it to resume clutching the safety rail.
"I am going to close my eyes," I announce. I close my eyes. And I find that being swung around at speed in a plastic bucket at vertiginous height is better that way.
"Ha ha, did you really close your - ohmygoddon'tfuckinglookdown, whatever you do don'tfuckinglookdown," says Tesco's Guy.
I open my eyes and look down.
I see my feet dangling 196.850394 feet above a spinning Winter Wonderland. There are tiny people on the ice rink. Black ants. My stomach lurches.
"I want to get off," I say. "Please may I get off now? Make it stop."
"Look at the horizon," says Tesco's Guy, ever the pragmatist. "See those interesting cloud formations?"
I look at the horizon. I see clouds. I see the cliffs at Penarth. I see England. I see some hills. I try to see Cardiff, but it is spinning too fast. I look down and see the dragon on the roof of City Hall a million miles below me, and the ice rink, and my dangling feet.
"Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh," I say.
"Force yourself to relax," suggests Tesco's Guy. "Mind over matter. It's only fear. I decided that I'm going to try and like this experience, and now it's not too bad."
I take a deep breath and concentrate, and eventually my shoulders descend from my ears. My feet, which had been locked in a rigid skywards position, also drop to a more normal angle. I tell myself in a breezy manner, 'well, this is ok', and try looking around.
My brain rejects this attempt at enjoyment.
I recommence staring grimly at the horizon.
"Take a photo," I instruct Tesco's Guy through gritted teeth.
"I can't let go," he says.
Back on beautiful terra firma, we have a well-deserved mulled wine, then go ice skating, which is about 300,000,000% more fun than being suspended 196.850394 feet in the air. Then he buys me dinner, because it's my birthday, and after that we go and see my favourite 80s band The Beat, who are playing in a venue five minutes' walk from my flat.
Except I haven't bothered to book tickets, because surely I am the only person in the world who has ever heard of The Beat, and also it's my birthday, so life HAS to go my way. We are greeted by a large notice saying 'Sold Out'.
We loiter outside for a while, but eventually admit defeat, and slink off disappointed to The Claude.
I text Tesco's Guy.
dude, the beat are playing in gloucester tonight. just sayin'...
He rings instantly.
"I Google-mapped it - it's only an hour away," I say, thanking the heavens for the 1990 Ford Escort Eclipse I just inherited (and when I say 'inherited' I mean I said to my sister, 'I'll have that thanks').
"Hmm," says Tesco's Guy. "Yeah, I think I'd be up for that."
I ring the box office.
"Sorry, love, there aren't any tickets left, they've all gone," a woman says.
Noooooo! Damn me and my surprisingly popular 80s band taste.
"I'll ring them and leave my number in case they get any returns," offers Tesco's Guy. He is such a sweetheart. But I fear the worst, and settle in for a lonely night on the couch, morosely clicking my way through The Beat offerings on YouTube.
At 8pm, my phone rings. "They've just called," says Tesco's Guy, "they've got two -"
I am already out the door.
We drive at somewhat illegal speed to Gloucester, and, after sprinting through the city centre trying to find the venue, arrive two bars into their first song.
I am in heaven. I worm my way as close to the front as I can get, and dance. Tesco's Guy stands beside me, nodding approvingly (he has never heard of The Beat, because he is a young person) and drinking cider.
I love The Beat. I love them so much. AND it's my birthday*. I can't believe we managed to skank a pair of tickets. I can't believe we got here in time. This is possibly the greatest night of my life. I am so happy right now I think I might burst.
"Who wants a free T-shirt?" enquires Rankin' Roger from the stage.
"Meeeeeeeeee," I shout, along with 300 other people. I add "It's my birthday," for clarification.
Roger takes his top off, revealing a very impressive torso for a man in his 50s. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tesco's Guy suddenly become alert. Before I can react, he is in the middle of the sweating, heaving mass of bodies in the mosh pit, one hand clutching his pint, the other aloft.
It feels inevitable, what happens next. It is destiny. Before the T-shirt has even left Roger's grip, I know that Tesco's Guy is going to get it.
It sails through the air. Why is everything in slow motion? It is like that bit in The Untouchables. Outstretched hands grab for the T-shirt; there is a brief scuffle. Tesco's Guy's height and sheer determination win out.
Open mouthed, I watch as Tesco's Guy brings the T-shirt over to me. He is puffed up and beaming, like a cat that's caught a rat or a blackbird or a small antelope.
"There you go, you cow."
People around us applaud and dispense congratulatory pats to our shoulders. I gaze at Tesco's Guy, starry-eyed and dumbstruck.
"Aaaaaaaaaagh!" I say. It seems to sum the situation up perfectly. We embrace. Both of us are delirious with delight. He is delirious with delight AND cider. I'm smiling so hard my face hurts. I find it impossible not to jump up and down. We can't stop hugging. He is without doubt the world's best human. He is my hero. Rankin' Roger's T-shirt is unpleasantly wet, dripping with ska sweat, but I don't care. It drips on our shoes.
Tesco's Guy sniffs it.
"Smells all right," he shrugs.
Best. Birthday. Ever.
* Yes it is. "My birthday" has been known to last for over a week