Guilty pleasures

The house breathed a sigh of relief as the door closed on the last departing traveller on Friday morning. “Don’t lose my new throw up tent, and don’t throw up in it,” I told Darling d as she staggered off heavily laden to yet another festival, inevitably leaving behind her carefully made sandwiches in the back of my car.

Mysweet had left the night before in a flurry of instructions concerning chickens, cats, broken computers, greenhouse watering schedules and everything else that I would need to do to replace him for a whole month of general handyman duties. He is going to work at the Edinburgh Festival.

I am alone. I can do what I want. When I want.

I can eat what I want.

I can clean the freezers out…at last. Wash floors and vacuum without people tramping all over them.

I can buy lots of tofu from the organic veggie shop.

I can play piano at 6.30am if I want.

I can watch detective mystery dramas on tv without having to pretend they are essential for my book.

I will probably get lonely in a couple of days, but for now…bliss.

Yes, I will get my book out and finish that synopsis, rewrite those first three chapters.

The phone rings.

“Mum, I’m on my way back from Rennes”, says Drummerboy.

“We will be rehearsing in the garage this afternoon with the whole group, and a couple of friends…We are playing a concert tomorrow, so we will all be staying overnight.”