Husband is in Russia again this week. When he first started going away to Moscow for one week every month, I rather looked forward to a whole tranche of days on my own. No-one to cook for, don’t have to watch ‘his’ programmes on TV, I sleep so much better without his background noises. (I can’t help feeling peeved that, after 20+ years of marriage, he obviously feels it is OK to be so …how shall I put it?… be so totally relaxed in my company. Personally I think it’s a teeny bit disrespectful and it certainly doesn’t endow him with any sex appeal, that’s for sure!).
Anyhow, this particular week, my son is on a residential course in Cowes, so it’s just little old me and the dogs. I say “little old me” but that’s not strictly true as my weight has been steadily creeping up by an ounce an hour recently (must be the red wine that seems so absolutely necessary by the time 6pm comes around). So, I thought I would adopt Annabel’s motto of “Turn a lemon into a melon”. Having no suppers to prepare means that I can lose some weight this week… so I stock up on soup (too lazy to make myself any I’m ashamed to say) and some lettuce leaves. Apart from those two items and some almost out of date milk, the fridge is echoingly bare.
Yet, mysteriously, I am still having to squeeze into my jeans. It is only when I sit down and add up the calories I’ve had, that I see why. Too many semi skimmed lattes, the ‘just one glass’ of Cote du Rhone, the several handfuls of hazelnuts that I raid from the larder at 9pm because I am ravenous (and a bit lonely).
I am also very tired. This is because despite checking under the bed, inside wardrobes and ensuring I have locked the doors, I lie stock still in bed listening out for the sounds of burglars, rapists and serial killers. I try to take comfort in my ‘guard’ dogs, but the truth is they would probably lick an assailant, rather than bite him (or her, mustn’t be sexist). So, hurry home Husband, all is forgiven.