Home Alone

19th May 2012 Saturday

All day I’ve been home alone. My husband leaves early with my brother-in-law for a fishing trip off the coast at Weymouth for my nephew’s stag do. I make him a smoked salmon bagel for the picnic on the boat. 

I’m restless - waiting for news of the pussy cat. When the vet rings he wants my permission to do another X-ray and more blood tests. It’s not just the worms. Could be inflamatory bowel disease or a lymphoma.

Usually I love being on my own with the house to myself - pottering, feeling into my own rhythm. But I’m never really on my own with the pussy cat somewhere snoozing on the bed or asking for a drink or squeaking round my ankles while I make lunch. Or throwing up on the carpet.

Today I imagined what it might be like with no little furry creature calling me out of bed in the morning or padding down the stairs when I come home or running to the fridge when he hears me opening the door.

I had a glimpse today of life with no pussy cat at home. And then I tried to imagine a life with no husband at home. And I wonder how they do it, those people I know who live alone - even from choice. What kind of extra root of courage you need to step into each day, and to climb into bed each night knowing it’s only you. Knowing it could be me.

It’s midnight silent now and I keep thinking I can hear the pussy cat meowing outside - calling to me. Letting me know he’s there.