Mr P used to work away loads. Every Sunday night was awful; I would sit on the bed watching him pack his bag, trying not to cry. He hasn’t worked away as much recently but this week, he’s in London for the duration. Whilst I was still sad on Sunday evening, I’ve learnt to treasure this time apart. It gives me the space to have two-hour long baths complete with face packs, trashy novels and candles. It allows me to play on the embarrassingly addictive games I love on the internet. I can watch America’s Next Top Model in peace wearing my glasses, completely free of make-up.
But the best thing is that we actually miss each other. By the time Friday rolls around, I’ll have had enough solitude and be craving my man. And that ensures a brilliantly hedonistic weekend follows.
Amen to that.