Being on my own. It’s a weird feeling. Not unpleasant, but weird. When you’re used to spending your daily life with someone, you do start to take their presence for granted. That doesn’t mean you love somebody less, but it does make you appreciate what you have even more.
Hubby is on a trip to Sweden with his brother and mother. I was invited as well of course, but as my deadline coincided with the trip, I decided it would be better to stay at home. Thankfully my trusty dog Miss Ginger Rogers is keeping me company and she’s doing a splendid job, I must say.
I visit London quite often with one of my best friends and then there’s the druid camps and gatherings, but it’s different when you’re the one doing the travelling. He used to go skiing with his son or daughter, but that was years ago.
I love our house, it’s very friendly and filled with light, if you don’t mind stairs. We have lots of them. It is lacking something though, his presence and if I focus, I can feel his residue, but it’s not the same of course.
So, just me and my dog. And my family. And my friends. And my favourite coffee place. Hmmm, not just me and my dog then I guess. I kind of like that thought. Even when we think we’re alone, we are not.