By about Tuesday, I see visions of a weekend laid out before me like the whitest of 5-star hotel bed linen.
Hello, my name is Melinda and I’m super jealous of my time. (Hello, Melinda).
The danger in this admission is that friends and family may now ring for a tad longer when they are trying to get hold of me. They will know I can likely hear the phone but choose not to pick up. This was not the case with my late husband, Bronnie. That man couldn’t hear a phone ring and leave it alone.
I’m reminded of the time he once spent a day trying to get hold of someone in the remotest reaches of West Africa. An entire day. In the end, he got through on a grainy and precarious line… then the call waiting beeps went off in his ear. Hand to God, Bronnie told the man in the remotest reaches of West Africa to “please hold.” (The waiting call was Tesco delivery.)
I may have called my husband some choice names that day.
With that neat segue, what I started to say is that it’s not that I don’t love my family and friends. I do. The problem is I am a gregarious and social animal who also likes (read: loves) being alone. By about Tuesday, I see visions of a weekend laid out before me like the whitest 5-star hotel bed linen. Mine to sully as I see fit with perhaps writing, reading or visiting perplexing art museums.
Although it doesn’t even have to be that cerebral. There’s oodles of joy in watching indecent amounts of ‘Columbo’ re-runs in a nightie eating Jaffa cakes. But I have been out of touch for a while, albeit for mitigating reasons. Some visits are thus imminent and I’ll need to play nice to store up enough credits to earn my next period of solitary contentment.