I admit it. I am in love with more than one person. A group of people, if you will. They are called Fleetwood Mac.

Rather late in the game in discovering my love for this band of angels, I began consciously playing Fleetwood Mac songs when I was eighteen years old. Noting that my Dad had played these fantastic tunes years before, I married my past and present and completely fell in love.

Speaking to my friend Joe, I let slip just exactly how little I knew about Stevie Nicks and her cohorts.

“I think Rumours is my favourite album,” I said, swaying with a bottle of beer in hand.

“But I don’t know if I should admit that. I think it’s a guilty pleasure,” I added.

“Jasmine,” he said. “Rumours is one of the most successful albums of all time. Every single track on there is a hit. Fleetwood Mac are globally renowned. And you keep on backwashing into my beer,” he kindly added, prising the bottle from my hands.

Five months later, we became an item. A year after that, I am still backwashing in his beer and talking about Fleetwood Mac.

“THERE’S GOING TO BE A TOUR THERE’S GOING TO BE A TOUR” I posted to his Facebook wall five times, fully aware that no band name was mentioned and how much of a social networking loser I am. Convinced that my “dreams” would a bit more optimistic than there’s (you can’t knock me for trying) I hoped that a Glastonbury date would be announced. I was crushed. They had been booked to visit my sister’s dwellings in America, and with a harsh slap in the face, she had got tickets. I was selfish. I was raving. And then my boyfriend told me some very good news.

“Happy Valentine’s! I am getting you Fleetwood Mac tickets,” he said.

“Not sure whether I’ll be up on time for the presale, so here’s my card details just in case.”

9 am dawned. It seems people on Virgin’s tariff cannot obtain 02 exclusives. I frowned.

9 am dawned the day after. It seems Live Nation are really horrible people.

9am dawned. The presales had passed. It was time for the rugby scrum.

I clicked on the website. Everything had sold out in four minutes.

“Are you there?” I said to my fellow purchaser. “Are you awake?”

I began clicking around. My mouse hovered over the Ireland button.

“Wake up! All the tickets have sold out,” I text.

I found two tickets for Dublin. £68 pounds apiece.

“Well, if you’re not up…” I muttered.

He woke up an hour later.

“Guess what happens when you leave me with your card details- we’re going to see Fleetwood Mac in Dublin!”

Thinking back, I’m sure I heard him crying.