…so they say.
It’s holiday time for me in a couple of days. Wahoo! A week away with my girls, staying in a house I know and love, in a city that I’m familiar with. There’s an inflatable pool in the garden, a cinema room in the basement, chocolate in the pantry and cidre (yes cidre, not cider) in the cupboard. A boulangerie down the road sells delicious baguettes, there’s French cheese in nearly every shop, and the river’s only a 10 minute walk away with a lovely path to stroll along. Oh and we’re a half hour train ride from central Paris. So you know, all the stuff that goes with that.
Sounds idyllic? It is, a bit. The only non-idyllic bit? I’ll be 416 miles from this guy.
I know it’s only a week. We’ve done further for longer. 1842 miles for 3 months when we were engaged. Then the same distance for another 2 months, then another 6 weeks. 416 miles for weeks at a time over 3 months less than a year after we got married. We were in different cities for most of our relationship before all that. To be honest, the distance doesn’t really matter; being apart is being apart, no matter how many miles are between you.
Call me soppy, whiney, weak, cheesey…but I miss my man when we’re not together. And so spending a week away from him – whilst I’ll enjoy myself and have a good time – won’t be easy. It’ll be a bit rubbish at times.
We’ve not really had a holiday by ourselves for two years now (apart from a weekend in Edinburgh) as we went to Switzerland with my Mum and sister last year, so I feel a little guilty about jetting off across the channel, leaving him at home to apply for jobs. I’ve got people from church having him round for dinner and possibly roping him into childcare during the day (sorry hubby), I know he’ll be ok.
As for distance making the heart grow fonder…I’ll give you an update on that in 8 days time 🙂