Living with Iain McEwan is like this: Some mornings, five minutes after you've both woken up at the crack of half past WTF o'clock, he'll drive you absolutely batshit fooking insane by running around the house like a hyperactive and slightly addled monkey, doing impressions of a fire engine siren—"NEE NAW! NEE NAW! NEE NAW!"—until you threaten to rip out his vocal chords with a rusty spanner, which only makes him laugh maniacally and do it even more. And you think: What did I do to deserve this?
And some mornings, when you don't hear him get up and only awaken when he gently kisses your cheek before sneaking out quietly, you go downstairs to the office and find something like this waiting for you on the computer:
And you think: What did I do to deserve this?
And either way, you are grinning and feeling quite fortunate to know this tremendously mad person.
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