Dear future hubster,
I've you are ever exposed to the hard choice of Nadal or Federer in my presence, here's a proposed media line, for your consideration: "Out of the two I would still choose Djokovic, but honestly, I would exchange all three for Marat Safin any given day".

Dear future hubster,
I just realized I don't fully agree with Love Actually's Prime Minister Hugh Grant. His famous and borderline tacky yet touching speech about the airport arrival halls needs amendments. It warms the heart to watch people arrive and families reunite, old friends come home; there is something powerful to the intense moment of seeing someone again, all the more if that someone dedicated time to come greet you at the airport. But it all becomes very unnerving if you're not only there to watch others' moments, but to pick up somebody yourself. All those people waiting, not really in line, too many of them in too little place, dogs, strollers, extended families, flowers, stereotypical wannabe-machos in tight t-shirts over their growing beer belly, hotel employees with their signs held up, everybody a little pushy and very excited, blocking your view and the exit corridor, checking the time every two minutes, re-checking estimated arrival every minute... they make me nervous. I always fear that I won't see the one I am there to see.

Dear future hubster,
I think we may have problems in the bedroom. It's one thing that Gáspár is getting really sensitive about his territory and that includes the top right corner of my bed, but I also sleep diagonally these days. You may be kicked in the kidney time and again. Out of pure affection.

Dear future hubster,
I know we agreed on your shiny two-seater and my family car already, but would it be possible for you to also have a motorbike of some sort? It would be an easy way to win my heart...