Weekends

First you have to make it through the week. And then, you have to gird yourself to make it through the weekend. Just another set of jobs to do for a bloody ungrateful, unfriendly bunch of customers.

This weekend, though, my friend is here from France and we've been for coffee with another friend, and looked around the shops, and laughed at one of his toddler-tantrums (in a restaurant - next time I'm making him sit in a high chair) and drunk wine and lazed in the hot tub.

The sun is out, and I'm making a butternut squash and sage risotto, and we're going for a walk round the castle this afternoon. With someone to talk to, the laundry mountain, the tidying, the ferrying around, the cleaning up - none of it seems quite so bad.

It makes me realise how much better things could be. I meet people all week, hundreds of them sometimes. Rarely though does anyone ask me about my day, how I am, what's my news. Probably a good job as I rarely have any news. Everyone is so busy, and my friends have their own troubles.

What I miss more than all the other things is someone to keep me company. To hang out with. Ruffle my hair, put an arm around my shoulders, pour me a glass of wine, choose a CD, chat about nothing in particular. Someone pleased to be there, and not in a rush to go and do something else. Someone happy to listen and happy to talk.

Someone to smile at me when I walk into a room.