Oh Hugh. I loved you when I watched Blackadder for the first time and marvelled at its brilliance. Your comic timing. Your brilliant turn in season three as the Prince. That time you couldn't work out how to put on your pants. That was the beginning.
Our love only grew stronger when I belatedly stumbled onto A Bit of Fry and Laurie and, oh, how I wished I could invite you and Stephen Fry over for a dinner party.
By the time I got around to watching you in the TV adapations of PG Wodehouse's Jeeves and Wooster stories I was already completely gone. Even today I can't read the books without imaging your blank, foolish face in the starring role. It was love - asexual and borne of admiration, not desire for your bandy legs and floppy hair but, still.
And yet I never fancied you, nor could have imagined fancying you, until House came along. Who knew a crumpled suit, designer stubble and abrasive personality could look sooo good?
I'd love to hate this incredibly popular, occassionally smug, show but I simply cannot. I am charmed - by the show, by the concept but, er, mostly by you. I find myself wondering if your eyes have always been that blue and I've never noticed, whether you've always had a certain crinkly hot charm or if it's come to you late in life and exactly what you would look like if I could just rip off that... ahem, but I digress.
Don't be a stranger, Hugh. Come over, bring wine, we can make fun of Darling and help you out of that artfully rumpled suit...