My husband went away last weekend for two nights. Two whole nights! I didn't know what to do with myself. I'm not used to spending time apart from him, this husband of mine. Husband. I'm still trying to get used to the word. I'm still trying to get used to the W word too. But I digress.
Normally when he's out I read or bake bread or do the shopping or epilate my legs or watch a film or walk Fat Rosie* or write something on my blog. Wholesome stuff. He's normally out for just a few hours on a Wednesday evening, and it's easy to be wholesome on Wednesdays. Last Friday lunchtime, however, he took off for a weekend with my brother and a dozen other reprobates to celebrate the fact that my brother, too, will soon become a Husband. "Have fun" I said, not meaning a word of it "and don't crash my car!" (I meant that bit). Off he went, and, not knowing quite what else to do, I went to bed.
I got up at around teatime, washed, dressed and went to a party. I'd almost forgotten what it's like to go to one on my own. It felt a bit like my first day at school. I'd tried to bring backup, of course, but backup couldn't get a babysitter and so I was forced to cowboy up and ride out alone. "You'll have fun, Pussycat" said Andrew in Bundoran. "But what if nobody talks to me?" I said. Sometimes I'm so pathetic that I wonder why anyone does bother talking to me. "Then leave" he said. Galvanised, I set out with a bottle of wine, 20 fags and a bottle of foamy orange liqueur that was shaped like a fire extinguisher and said something about goats and Christmas on the label.
I had a great night. There were daiquiris and pornography and someone said that they liked my blog. I got wonderfully, expansively drunk and sat on the floor with the dog for a bit. Then I hugged people and wandered off towards Rialto before hailing a taxi. "Did you have a good night, love?" the driver asked, eyeing me up in the rearview mirror. "I did" said I. "You should head out in town now tomorrow night" he said, "there'll be loads of rugger buggers out for you." "But I'm newly married!" I spluttered. "Well love" he said "you don't have to go home with them". We spent the rest of the journey not talking to one another. Or at least, I wasn't talking to him.
On Saturday I went shopping. I needed to get something to wear to my brother's wedding. Of all the bad ideas I've ever had, I think the decision to head to Dundrum shopping centre on a Saturday afternoon with a hangover may have been my worst. I came home with a leopard-print maxi-dress, a crippling headache and a bag full of M&S readymeals.
And then I went out again. To a quiet pub, this time, with two quiet friends. I got wonderfully, expansively drunk. Again. It seems I can't help but repeat myself.
On Sunday I stayed in bed. I got up at lunchtime to excuse myself from a dinner to which I had not been invited but to which I had invited myself, then I went back to bed. I got up again at 3.30pm to shower and put ribbons in my hair. Andrew came home at 4. "Oh Pussycat!" he said when he saw what was left of me, and he wrapped me up in a bear hug.
*The landlords' doggle. I am not making derogatory references to myself in the third person. For once.
Normally when he's out I read or bake bread or do the shopping or epilate my legs or watch a film or walk Fat Rosie* or write something on my blog. Wholesome stuff. He's normally out for just a few hours on a Wednesday evening, and it's easy to be wholesome on Wednesdays. Last Friday lunchtime, however, he took off for a weekend with my brother and a dozen other reprobates to celebrate the fact that my brother, too, will soon become a Husband. "Have fun" I said, not meaning a word of it "and don't crash my car!" (I meant that bit). Off he went, and, not knowing quite what else to do, I went to bed.
I got up at around teatime, washed, dressed and went to a party. I'd almost forgotten what it's like to go to one on my own. It felt a bit like my first day at school. I'd tried to bring backup, of course, but backup couldn't get a babysitter and so I was forced to cowboy up and ride out alone. "You'll have fun, Pussycat" said Andrew in Bundoran. "But what if nobody talks to me?" I said. Sometimes I'm so pathetic that I wonder why anyone does bother talking to me. "Then leave" he said. Galvanised, I set out with a bottle of wine, 20 fags and a bottle of foamy orange liqueur that was shaped like a fire extinguisher and said something about goats and Christmas on the label.
I had a great night. There were daiquiris and pornography and someone said that they liked my blog. I got wonderfully, expansively drunk and sat on the floor with the dog for a bit. Then I hugged people and wandered off towards Rialto before hailing a taxi. "Did you have a good night, love?" the driver asked, eyeing me up in the rearview mirror. "I did" said I. "You should head out in town now tomorrow night" he said, "there'll be loads of rugger buggers out for you." "But I'm newly married!" I spluttered. "Well love" he said "you don't have to go home with them". We spent the rest of the journey not talking to one another. Or at least, I wasn't talking to him.
On Saturday I went shopping. I needed to get something to wear to my brother's wedding. Of all the bad ideas I've ever had, I think the decision to head to Dundrum shopping centre on a Saturday afternoon with a hangover may have been my worst. I came home with a leopard-print maxi-dress, a crippling headache and a bag full of M&S readymeals.
And then I went out again. To a quiet pub, this time, with two quiet friends. I got wonderfully, expansively drunk. Again. It seems I can't help but repeat myself.
On Sunday I stayed in bed. I got up at lunchtime to excuse myself from a dinner to which I had not been invited but to which I had invited myself, then I went back to bed. I got up again at 3.30pm to shower and put ribbons in my hair. Andrew came home at 4. "Oh Pussycat!" he said when he saw what was left of me, and he wrapped me up in a bear hug.
*The landlords' doggle. I am not making derogatory references to myself in the third person. For once.
