“Why do you love me?” I sigh at the question I’ve asked myself frequently over the years. With a quick peck to his lips, I tell him, “Because, in you, I found my heart.”

“Do you…love me?” I asked him, my chesthurting.“That’s a silly question,” he said, stroking my cheek. “An unnecessary question. I’ve never made a secret of my feelings, Bianca. I know you’re a skeptic, but you must have realized that I fell for you right away.”

“Please don't ask me to go with you, because if you do, I'll go. Please don't ask me to tell Frank about us, because i'll do that, too. Please don't ask me to give up my responsibilities or break up my family; I love you, and if you love me, too, then you just can't ask me to do these things. Because I don't trust myself enough to say no.”

“Why do you love me, Angela?'Arsehole. Turning my question back on myself. 'Why do I love you?''It's really easy to say I love you, it's another altogether to explain why,' he said.”

“‘Dad,’ said Jack one day. ‘When you’re on the telly, d’you think people are laughing with you or at you?’The question had obviously been bothering him for a while.‘Y’know what,’ I said to him, ‘as long as they’re laughing, I don’t care.’‘But why, Dad? Why would you want to be a clown?’‘Because I’ve always been able to laugh at myself, Jack. Humour has kept me alive over all these years.’And it’s true, y’know.”

“When I'm ninety, I want you to tell me that it's my turn to ask you a question, and if that miracle happens, then my question is going to be, 'Do you still love me?' and I hope that answer will still be yes.”