On Wednesday it will be 9 months since I met MrS. 274 days. Three quarters of a year.
I don’t think my life has been “normal” since then.
The first 6 months of that we each spent alternate weekends driving up and down the M11 to see each other. As couples do, we spent that time showing each other the places we loved in and around our respective homes. The places that meant something to each other that we wanted to share. We went away for weekends and filled our time.
Since I moved here we’ve not had a single weekend where there wasn’t something on – moving offspring out of old homes (in Norwich, Manchester and Scarborough), birthday parties and family barbecues, seeing family and friends, looking for a new home, selling this one. It was all we could do to fit in some shopping before we went on holiday.
This weekend we did a 500+ mile round trip to Yorkshire to celebrate MrS’s parents’ 65th
Anniversary. (Actually, let’s just stop and absorb that shall we. They’ve been married for 65 years. SIXTY FIVE years. THAT is some achievement). It was lovely. His sisters and brother, nieces and nephews live all over the country and are not often all together in one place at the same time.
We’ve made a pact that over the coming months we will make a point of staying in Norfolk at least once a month and then on the weekends we are here, making sure we don’t ignore everything we have on our own doorstep. All the same it would be nice to wake up on a Saturday morning very soon, in our own bed and not have to drive somewhere miles away. Just to have tea and toast in bed and listen to music, get up, walk the dog, do some shopping, go out for dinner. Just one weekend.