I have just scoffed eight very delightful and extremely superior chocolates, a very large glass of wine and a small packet of Hula Hoops as I watched Emmerdale.
This is the sum total of my Friday night's supper. I will regret it I know but for now, for these brief few hours, while it digests, I have regressed to an I am not an adult but nor am I a child state and I refuse to have any guilty feelings about it at all.
Tomorrow as they say is another day but for tonight as I sit here in a warm and fuzzy glow brought about by the unusual consumption of alcohol I do not care.
And why do I not care? Well, I have been left on my own. My better half has swanned off to be feted, wined and dined by academe in Cambridge, and I am basically feeling left out, lonely and bored. This is not the usual state of affairs. Usually HE is at home on Fridays and though we rarely these days do anything but have a hasty TV supper and zone out in front of the box, it is comforting. It is something I look forward to all week.
For on Saturdays he will not leave me, on Saturdays he will be around for breakfast. There will be eggs, and bacon, burnt toast and shouting, squabbling, laughing children, excited dogs, cats wending their way across the table most unhygenically. There will be the badly tuned radio and such a mess, such an awful mess that will immediately set me off and I will huff and puff and grumpily sit down to be poured tepid tea and passed rubber toast with eggs that look as though they have travelled a hundred miles and despite it all he will be there even if I will wish him otherwise at the time.
But tomorrow I will be on my own again.