Off he went again, rather glum about saying goodbye to the new love of his life (that's Lady P, not another car, to be clear). And so began another boring endurance trial for Lady P and I. We miss him so, you see.
Don't get me wrong, it's not as if I cry myself to sleep every night when he's gone. Actually I tuck myself into bed really early, with a good book, and feel quite smug about it. I keep my self busy socialising with my family - a run out for afternoon tea with my mum, lots of playing with my nearby nephews and chatting to my sister, and a couple of Sunday lunches at my parents'. I made a foray down to Harrogate to see an old friend for the day. And thanks to the wonders of childcare, got out for yoga and for a personal training session.
So it was a reasonably busy week. It was a productive one, too. I spent my free, housebound evenings writing. I probably lost a couple of pounds thanks to consuming mainly vegetables and fruit all week. And Lady P and I worked on sleeping through the night: she's much better at it now. (Probably because I caved and now give her an enormous bottle of formula at midnight and then refuse to feed her till breakfast.)
And yet, and yet, I missed him still. No matter that I can fill my days and nights with things to do. Nor that I have my little buddy Lady P to keep me company. Nor that I caught up on sleep and all that good stuff. It's just that life is somehow kinda boring when he's not around.
Now he's back. Proposing we wander out for coffee, when I had meant to be writing. Suggesting ice-cream, or cheese, after a dinner that was supposed to be healthy. Pouring whisky when we should be going to bed. Taking up half the bed and more than half the covers. Messing up my carefully constructed clothes filing system when he puts Lady P's clothes away.
He really is a terrible influence. And life really is just much more fun when he's at home.