Wistful

It has surely only been a day since I last sat down to write. But no, my blog tells me not. Clearly, I have been busy elsewhere,doing other things, living another life.

Clearly.

Last weekend, I was visited by pestilence. You may remember that the previous weekend, the house was also visited by pestilence. It seems to be a regular occurrence. You may want to have a look for your umbrellas, because we are evidently due a downpour of frogs. This time, the plague was upon me. The same plague that had visited my son the week before. It was not nice. Not nice at all. In between the clear inconvenience of vomiting, there was also much whining, and woe is me-ing. I'm not a model patient, by any stretch of the imagination.

It is probably fortunate that I live on my own.

I recovered bravely to return to work on Wednesday, more of the same blah blah blah there, so clearly that cannot be responsible for my lack of an appearance at my PC at home. I think it may have been a teeny weeny amount of reluctance on my part to come back.

Not that I don't still enjoy it, far from it.

But if you remember, I was meant to be meeting him on Monday night. For our first coffee since.... well, you know. And I couldn't go, because I was ill. I sent him a text message to apologise, saying I wasn't well, maybe we could try another time. I drifted back to sleep, worn out by the sickness and plague. And was awakened not too long after at 8 in the morning, by him leaving a message on the answerphone. Was I OK? Could I drop him a text to let him know? Of course we could arrange another time. I thought it a bit odd, after all, it was early for a Monday, you know? About lunchtime, I did as I was bid.

I lay in bed until the afternoon, then moved location to laying on the sofa. A change is as good as a rest, they say. And I no longer needed to be within sprinting distance of the bathroom. A fairly rapid jog would now cover it. I wondered if this was a warning that I was trying to meet him too soon. I would have accepted a brief note, a rap on the walls, or a ghostly voice. Plague seemed a bit extreme.

I phoned him in the evening to let him know I was feeling a little better, and to provoke the plague gods a little. How much worse could they make it? He told me he'd been worried when he got my text, I hadn't told him what was the matter. That's why he'd phoned. We chatted a while, idle chatter, nothing significant.

He told me he missed me. And I told him I missed him too. And I do.

Nothing significant.

Not any more.