My husband is home.
This is very satisfactory indeed.
I hate it when he is away. I absolutely, positively, absatively hate it.
I feel like a girly wimp for saying it, but in the spirit of honesty and the second glass of very palatable Malbec that I am quaffing, I am not about to lie.
It is not that I am not capable, dear reader, of being without him. For indeed I am. It is fair to say that with the number of spectacularly shite things that the universe has hurled my way since he jaunted off to foreign climes, I am stupendously capable.
So far I have dealt with funny smells in the panic room of death, recalcitrant furniture, difficult delivery men, dentistry up the yin yang, conjunctivitis x two (me and Tilly), leaks, dodgy boilers, crap door bells, many, many disappointing people who have rendered me not a little unhappy from time to time, jump leads, abstract theatre, baby showers where I had to eat things that looked like pooh, and often tasted worse, baby sitting, raging PMT, a stiff neck, and all the usual crap the weeks throw at me on a regular basis. During all of this I have not stabbed anyone, failed to turn up anywhere, or wept in public. Sometimes I have even brushed my hair, although on Friday, Nicki did point out that my cardigan had been on inside out all day…
Not only that but I have started a new EBay Queen career of the century and managed to pay some bills.
It is a good job that I am not one of those weedy women who turn up their toes at the first sign of trouble and hide under the duvet.
I sometimes wish I were. Life would be so much easier if I just refused at the first fence.
So, we have established that I can manage.
But, I say, but, what is the point of just managing? Eh? Who wants to get to the end of their days and say. Ah well, I had a good innings, I managed a lot of shite and didn’t embarrass myself too much. I can really say I was a coper?
Some days. Some days when he isn’t here, I drive really slowly up our road in the hope that he might just have come home when I wasn’t there. The slower I drive, the longer I can maintain the illusion that he just might be there. He just might have told them all to fuck off and come home.
Sad, aren’t I?
It’s not that we are marvellously, blissfully happy every day that we are together. We aren’t. Not at all. And on the days when he’s home, even now, we spend most of them pottering around, politely getting on with our own thing and not bothering each other. But it is the best way of being I can think of. He quiets my soul. He soothes my ruffled feathers, even when it’s him that ruffles them, and he makes me quietly, simply happy just by being in the same air space. Everything is a little brighter when he’s around. Everything is a little calmer. Everything is a little more right than it is when he isn’t here.
You know how when you stroke a cat, if you do it the wrong way, all their fur sticks up crapwise? That’s how I am when he’s away. And when you stroke a cat the right way, all their fur is lovely and smooth, and they purr? That’s how I am when he’s home.