The thing about living separately during the week is that I spend a lot of time on my own. My weeks are bookend by 45 minute drives to the station, listening to audio books. In term time, the last thing I do before collecting M and the first thing I do after he has gone is ballet. Ballet is soothing, repetitive, peaceful. Those are the good weeks. In the school holidays, the weeks are emptier, but still short. The harder weeks are the weeks when M is away for longer; this week from Sunday morning to late Friday night. Our weekend squashed into Friday evening and Saturday. A visit to the cinema to watch Harry Potter, an afternoon on the sofa watching the golf and finally compiling our honeymoon photographs into an album. Making lasagne, side by side; running to the shop, 10 minutes before it closes, in the rain, to get ice cream.
And then, this morning. On my own. A trip to the beach, a different beach this time, the one above, one with an old-fashioned cafe, eating breakfast and reading the paper. Watching the waves retreating as the tide slid back into the Bristol Channel. A blustering walk along the sea front. Retreating to the house, watching Gossip Girl. I've never been a fan of Sundays on my own. But Sundays, back when I was in London, were easier. There were always things to do, and almost always, things to do things with. But down here, they're lonelier.
(of course, I could hoover the upstairs, sort through my clothes, clean the bathroom, do my tax return or one of the myriad other boring admin tasks that are vaguely on my to-do-list, but where's the fun in that?)
Photo by me.