Frogs and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails

I’m back! It’s been a long absence, I know, but then I’ve had tons of stuff going on. I’ve started my French language course, signed up to a degree starting in April and work has now picked up. Really rather busy! And as for my title, I ate one of these last weekend. Yup, that’s right. On Saturday night, I ate cuisses des grenouilles, or frog legs. I still can’t believe I managed it, but in truth, they weren’t that bad. Somewhere between chicken and fish. No snails. This time.

As you might have guessed, I was back in France with The Frenchman. Suffice it to say, it was great. Beautiful weather (for February) on the day I arrived, bright sun, warm air. Fab. Then light snow on Saturday. Talk about changeable. It was a really chilled weekend, which was just as well since I’m skint as a mofo. Highlights included:

  • Him surprising me at the station when I arrived since I thought he’d have to work until a couple of hours later
  • Amazing sex. Pretty standard, really 😉
  • Playing squash. And, can I just say, how much of a turn on is it watching a guy who’s good at sports? Turns out he’s one of those annoying people who are pretty good at any sport they turn their hands to. Cue weak knees as he exhibited his great ball control
  • Grinning at the cute-ness of his geekiness when I snuck a peek at magazines about his hobby on his bookshelf
  • Grinning even more at the cute-ness of him keeping the label I’d attached to the Christmas present I’d sent him which was tucked away on his bookshelf
  • Curling up on the sofa watching football on Sunday afternoon
  • Giggling/choking at shots of rum before making home-made mojitos
  • Cramming into a tiny pub to watch Olympique de Marseille take on Paris St-Germain and David Beckham’s goldenballs
  • Jumping out of my skin when he did the biggest fart in bed

The last one really made me smile. Sounds weird, I know, but it’s like this. For 3 nights and 4 days, that just doesn’t happen. We’re still at that stage where we pretend we don’t poo, or fart, or anything other than go for a quick tinkle and burp. I can’t tell you how painful it is. I actually thought I’d die on Sunday when we were watching the football. I couldn’t even finish my beer, I was ridiculously bloated. So when we went to bed and he started snoring minutes later, I nearly jumped out of bed when he let some rip. Bless. Clearly he was feeling as bloated as I was. When does it become okay to do this stuff? I’m not suggesting we should be cocking our legs up on the sofa having farting competitions. I’m a believer that some things should stay private and I think he does too. He closes the bathroom door whenever he goes to get rid of his condom and clean up etc but, come on. I’m waiting for him to make a faux pas first. I’m a lady, you know.

It was a nice weekend that, as usual, went way too quickly. I found out more about him, he found out more about me. We goofed around, we watched films and it was nice not to be doing something. I told him he didn’t have to feel he needed to entertain me the whole time while I’m there, it’s nice just to see what his life is like. So now I’m back to that normal feeling of, meh, what do I do now? This set up is so, so hard, though I guess it’s easier than it should be (by rights). Is it dangerous to say I’m dreaming of the time I can just go live there and make it all much easier?


A whole lotta Durex and a whole lotta fun

So, The Frenchman came, he went and I conquered. And we came. And came. A massive box of Durex, gone. Fun times. Right now, I’m battling against a cold and feeling a bit sorry for myself. The cold is courtesy of The Frenchman. He came down with it three days before flying in but hey, it’s a small price to pay for the fun we had.

 The weekend went without a hitch, despite the sky shitting snow all over London. I mean, really?! I had to adjust the plans I’d made a little but on the whole it went to plan. I was unbelievably nervous waiting for him at the airport. I have no idea why. But I was. Proper heart ricocheting in my chest, sweaty palms, sickly nervous. But then when I saw him, well, all was good. He looked deliciously handsome and was wrapped up in the scarf I’d bought him for Christmas. Looked good on him, too. On the drive into London, I showed him various sites – the Olympic Park, Canary Wharf, my house. Yep. We drove straight past it. And if it wasn’t for the fact I’m living with the ‘rents, I’d have been taking him there instead. Having said that, when we got to the hotel, it was clear I’d made the right choice. We got upgraded to a suite for no apparent reason (and I never get upgraded anywhere, on anything, ever). So, instead of just a room, we had a massive living room with a great view over London, massive bathroom with double shower, kitchen and bedroom. Nice. This clearly meant more surfaces to get dirty on. And get dirty we did. Bedroom, tick. Shower, tick. Bath, tick. Kitchen, tick. Sofa, tick. Up against the floor to ceiling height windows overlooking Waterloo station? Tick. Just, fabulous. I’m quite amazed at how good the sex actually is. Very cat that got the cream, I can tell you.

 So, the Friday, we went to look at Egyptian mummies and drink real ale in a chintzy Victorian pub and in the evening, I introduced him to Nandos. I cannot believe they don’t have one in France. I mean, seriously? What’s that all about? I adore Nandos. So we met up with Miss America and her husband, had some food and then headed into central London for some cocktails. It was a lot of fun. I love that The Frenchman loves to dance. I love that he’s so affectionate, even in front of other people. He’ll kiss me anywhere. Over the table in a restaurant, on the Tube, on the bus, in a packed bar. I felt thoroughly adored and I’m sure I was positively glowing. It was a lovely day and night. With the snowfall everything was coated in white and it was nothing short of romantic, walking around the near deserted streets of London at 2am after having argued about whether English or French McDonald’s was better…ahhh, l’amour. Saturday was a chilled affair. We had a long lie in and a nice lunch before wandering around Covent Garden, Soho and Carnaby Street. We stopped off at Yuautcha, a Chinese/Japanese restaurant in Soho and had coffees and macaroons (cola, hazelnut and parma violet flavoured. Just yum) and headed back to the hotel for a nap. That night we went on the London Eye, a first for the both of us, and then into Chinatown for dinner. I think it’s safe to say that his naughty side is definitely becoming a lot more pronounced now. As we were having a cigarette in the freezing cold, he told me he’d love to warm me up by pushing me up against the wall and fucking the life out of me. I almost choked on my cigarette. Not because I’m a prude, but because it came from him. He’s always sensitive, more romantic than aggressive in the bedroom, and even though I knew he had a naughty side to him, it took me by surprise coming from nowhere like it did. Yeah. That was a lot of fun.

 That’s what the weekend was. Fun. We didn’t have any heavy conversations, we just hung out. Enjoyed each others company. Took the piss out of my bad French and his dodgy English phrases. After talking about blowjobs, it transpired I can’t say ‘souffler’ (blow) and it’s a common term of endearment in French to call a woman ‘Ma biche’ (my doe). He calls me his little venison instead. We’re racking up the ‘in jokes’ and each of them make me smile. I didn’t repeat the L-Bomb but it took a LOT of restraint on my part. It’s incredibly hard for me to hold back on what I’m feeling sometimes but, I did it. And as he told me at the airport as he was leaving, ‘we’re strong’. That’s enough for me.

For the entire weekend, we were literally joined at the hip. So much so that I feel a bit lost now. As usual, it’s going to take a good few days for me to feel back to normal, get used to sleeping alone and waking alone. Total balls.

I go back to Marseille in four weeks time and I’m already marking the days in my calendar.


If you snooze you lose

So Mr Soldier texted me again about an hour ago.

‘Your lips are looking too hot.’

He was referring to a picture I’d put on Facebook from my night out yesterday, my lips streaked with deep red lipstick. I replied back with ‘thanks’ and when he texted back and asked if he could kiss them again, he got a ‘nope’ in response. I mean. Really? Anyway, this went back and forth for a few minutes, him saying what he missed about me and me saying ‘I’m off the market’. Then he said:

‘It’s been over a year now.’

Well, yes. It almost has, kinda. So why keep harping on about it? The sex was good, but really? It can’t be that hard to go get laid somewhere else. I replied back and said yep, a lot can change in a year and he said he wished things hadn’t changed. I reminded him that he was the one to flake on our arrangement, and now it’s too bad. If you snooze, you lose. That’s the way of the world. You can’t just pick someone up and put them down whenever you feel like it and expect them to hang around. Besides, I’m so not interested. Wouldn’t go back there if you paid me. That’s the last time I dally with a friend’s brother!

Bloody men.

That thing between life and death…what a bitch!

These are the words of a text I received from The Ex today. What a headfucker of a day. At 4.15am, my phone buzzed and woke me up – which doesn’t often happen. It was a text from my Ex (a particularly boisterous text) followed by another asking for me to call him. I replied, asking if his text was meant for me. No, was the reply. Fair enough. I turned around to fall back asleep, and then my phone rang. What followed was a 3 hour conversation.

We covered a lot of ground. Initially, he was calling because a mutual friend of ours (ish) had told him I was doing coke, sleeping with his friends etc etc. I know who he was talking about and I don’t understand why she’s saying this. I haven’t done coke. I tried a little on my gums on a night out with Mr Music because I wanted to know what the fuss was about. It was disgusting. And I’d told my friend this while we were talking about coke in general. As for me sleeping with his mates, well. I haven’t! One of them tried it on with me, twice, but I said no. Furthermore, the friend of his who tried it on is now sleeping with the friend whose been stirring shit. Lastly, I wouldn’t dip into that genetically inbred pool if you paid me. So, of course, I told him all this. He said he believed me, he just couldn’t understand why she was saying these things. The conversation then covered our relationship, our new relationships and everything in between.

The worst thing he said, was that this time last year, when I was begging and dying for him to take me back, he said no because he didn’t want to feel like I was doing it out of pity for him and the way he acted when I left him. He wanted me to take the time to really think about what I wanted, but that he did want to get back together. That hurt. A lot. I don’t know how I could have made it any clearer that I wanted him back. When he left me crying until I thought I’d vomit up my insides, twice. When I’d call and text and call and text. I don’t understand how he could have thought it was pity. He said saying no was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. I felt incredibly sad and I told him that. Throughout our relationship he could be the master manipulator. He could pull anyone’s strings and have them marching to the beat of his drum. But there’d be times he’d do things and I wouldn’t understand why. He used to tell me he wanted me to figure out the reasons why instead of him telling me. He said, that there were certain things in life that he didn’t want to influence people over, so he would do things without explanation to make them think about why he was doing what he was doing. And if that sounds complicated, it’s because it was. I don’t know how many times I’d told him while we were together not to do this. I could never figure it out and it inevitably led to arguments. It seems that him rejecting me, almost a year ago to the day, was borne out of the same idea. He said he wanted me to want to be with him (which he would know was for real after a period of absence), and make that want known, followed by ‘hint, hint, nudge, nudge’. He said there was one point when we’d met and I was so upset, but I still couldn’t tell him I wanted to come back. And that even now, he knows I wouldn’t be able to say that, even if that’s what I still wanted because I’m that stubborn.

It was a hard conversation. Very emotional, very deep. Despite that, we still laughed like we were old friends. He told me I sounded strong and sexy, like the 17 year old girl he fell in love with and not the 27 year old woman who left. He told me he wanted me to give 100% of myself to the next guy, like I didn’t with him. And for his part, he told me about what he’s been up to. About his relief at easily being able to make a woman come in bed, which he did maybe three or four times with me, though not through lack of trying. In fairness, his new girlfriend sounds nice  enough. It sounds like she’s giving him everything he wants and was never able to get from me. We spoke about friends we used to hang out with. His best friend (who’s friends with Gym Buddy and the reason we met in the first place) is back with his girlfriend. When they were together, we all used to hang out. I really liked her and then when they split (in a particularly nasty fashion), I never heard from her again. I actually contacted her again this year and we swapped a couple of emails before she dropped off again. Turns out they’re back together now after being apart for a couple of years and expecting a baby. I don’t know why but that news really got to me. In my head, we were always going to be the ones to do that first. We were always the couple our friends used to talk about as the pinnacle of what relationships were. Hard, yes, but solid. Which was the case for many years. We were meant to get married first, have kids first. Now, that’s happening to them instead of us. He said the same thing, that I was meant to be the grandmother of his grandchildren and now that’s not going to happen. In the end, he started to get upset and said he had to go, at 7.30am.

I was confused. I was tearful and I was sad. He was such a huge part of my life for so long and I couldn’t understand, why now? Why are you telling me this now? We’ve had comms throughout the year, it’s not like this was the first time we’d spoken since the split. We ended up texting until around midday. What have I deduced from this?

He feels regret. He says he thinks he loves his new girlfriend, but she isn’t me. I almost felt like sending him the link to my post about moving on. He said he felt like he’d ruined me and it had been playing on his mind for a long time. That he felt I’d become someone else as a result of what went on during our relationship. To be honest, I think he felt guilt. He’s really into his new girlfriend but it isn’t the same. He said that a lot. The sex is great, but it’s not you. She’s very reactive, but she’s not you. She’s great, but she’s not you. I told him that of course it’s not the same. It’s not meant to be. But if he really likes her then he owes it to her and himself to really try, instead of holding onto memories of what we had. He said he’s learned a lot from our break up (though he’s still on the coke??) and he understands why I left. He doesn’t want me to only tell people about the bad times because he has apparently never badmouthed me. To his friends, to his new girlfriend. It sounded a lot like a case of ‘what could have been’. ‘If only’. If only he hadn’t of played this mind game with me last year. If only I’d have tried for one more week to get him back. He sounded like he didn’t know what he wanted. He said he didn’t know what he wanted. Distracted by memories and nostalgia and I told him that it wasn’t fair to put me through this just because of those two things. He replied by saying he thinks he knows what he wants, he just hadn’t properly dealt with things until today. And knowing that I’m happy makes that easier. I’ll always be the love of his life and even though he’s old school and therefore bound to hate The Frenchman or anyone else, he’s also an adult and wants me to be happy.

By the time we said our goodbyes, I felt a bit better. It felt like he just needed to talk some things out and figure things out in his head. And although I shouldn’t be the person he goes to for that, I can’t deny it was nice to talk to him again. Our break up was hard and messy, but the comms we’ve had since then have been friendly enough. After ten years, of course I care about him. Of course I want him to be happy. He’s such a strong person, I know how much it takes for him to talk about his deep feelings, let alone cry. It goes against everything he was brought up to believe, so I knew how much he needed to talk last night.

It’s left me unfocused and with a headache. My trip to the National Gallery turned out to be a waste of time because I couldn’t focus on anything at all. Not because I’m confused about my feelings, or anything like that, but because I’ve been left with this feeling that I can’t describe. This feeling of…..this. I have to agree with his text. Life is a bitch and full of what ifs and regrets. But I do know that this year I’ve been happy. I can’t lay my unhappiness all on him – I know I could have done things differently to make myself happy – but I wouldn’t have done even a quarter of the things I’ve done this year if we’d have got back together. And it’s only after I’ve done said thing that I realise how much I’ve changed since I left. Or reverted back to my old self.

But I still can’t help the feeling that all of this shouldn’t have happened. And because of a massive case of crossed wires, miscommunications etc, it has. And that is such a shame.

Dirty Pictures and The End of The World

So last night after a great dinner with Miss Comeback, Miss Sunshine and a few other colleagues, I tucked myself up in bed ready to sleep. My phone had been bleeping away all night with the writer girls I speak to on our Facebook thread. When all four of us get chatting it can get a bit hectic so I turned the notifications off. I’m still getting used to my new mobile and I’ve not yet familiarised myself with the different notifications for different apps, so when my phone bleeped again I sighed and ignored it. And then thought, actually, let me just check. I’m glad I did because it was a picture of Mr Marseille’s naked torso. Hello. We started chatting and clearly, he had the horn. So finally, we started swapping pictures. 

Things have moved very slowly in this regard between us. The guys I dated so far this year all wanted pictures straight away and I was always a bit…put off with doing so. So I quite liked Mr Marseille’s approach of waiting for a while. Think it’s safe to say I slept well. And I’ve kept his pictures in a locked app on my phone for a cheeky peek now and again.

In other news, it’s the 21st December today, which some believe to be the end of the world thanks to a perhaps heavy misinterpretation of the Mayan calendar. Never mind the fact it’s been the 21st for a few hours in some parts of the world and, I think they’re still here. But I might be wrong.Unless of course it’s relating to one of the 24 hours of today in south American time. Then we’re screwed.

If, however, the world does end, I’d like to take this opportunity to say thanks for reading my blog.

But I’m sure I’ll see you (metaphorically speaking) tomorrow.


Dropping The L-Bomb

Well. I’m sure the heading rather gives this whole post away. I think I’ve known for a while how I feel about The Frenchman. The post where I wrote about Waiting And Depressed Cats was when I started to think this way. I really didn’t plan on saying anything to him about it. I’d spoken to Miss America and told her I was worried about making him feel pressured or whatever, so I wasn’t going to say anything. As it was, that didn’t happen. Yep. I dropped the L-Bomb. So what happened?

WARNING: The likes of Social Kenny might want to skip this. It’s mushy. You’ve been warned!

Well, if you’ve read my last post, you’ll know I had an amazing weekend. Aside from the whole treating me like a princess thing and the sex being out of this world, it was perfect. He is so attentive, so sensual, so…everything. I like the way he makes me feel, sure, but its more than that. I have an outstanding amount of respect for him. I know he hasn’t always been how he is now and I respect him a lot for pulling himself up and sorting himself out. Everything about him is exactly how I thought it would be and there’s nothing that makes me think ‘oh, I’ll just have to settle for that.’ There were certain moments that put the words right on the cusp of my tongue and believe me, with my impatient, impulsive, spontaneous nature, it was bloody hard to swallow them back down.

The way he looks at me, frankly, makes me melt. He says just the sweetest things, I practically have to pick myself up off the floor most of the time. He takes the piss out of me, which I love and I had been worried about the language barrier making that impossible. While we were out on Saturday night, I looked at him dancing away (which I love, since most guys I know just don’t dance at all) and thought, ‘Fuck me. I’m actually falling for this guy.’ And I was scared. I’ll admit it. I had felt it for a while but for some reason, this particular moment just kind of hit me in the face. Still, I didn’t say anything. We were both a bit drunk and I just danced the feeling away. Then, on Sunday night, he got a bit sick. He’d eaten some of the pie he’d made on Friday and an hour later, complained about having an upset stomach. Thankfully, I’d declined. It seemed the different cheeses, egg and milk just didn’t sit well after a couple of days. He didn’t actually throw up, thank God, but he did spend a lot of time in the toilet. He was a little embarrassed about it, as I would be, but hey, these things happen. Now, there is only one other guy that I’ve been able to handle being around when they feel sick. And sick Mr Marseille felt. I didn’t freak out. Which is major for me. There was none of the ‘ohmigod I have to get away from him’ that I usually feel if I’m in close quarters to someone who feels that sick. I even gave him a long-ass blowjob to make him feel a bit better. Unheard of. But this combined with everything else just put me over the edge.

So it kinda slipped out. Whoops. Cue sick feeling, sweaty palms and thinking ‘oh my fucking hell, what the fuck have I just done?’. Talk about verbal diarrhoea.

He said he knew something was wrong because I seemed sad that morning (I wasn’t sad, just confused/worried/etc) and he was worried. He said ‘it’s not the same for me. I protect myself too much so it takes more time, but I think it could definitely be the case.’

Not exactly what I wanted to hear but again, because of how he is, I didn’t feel like I’d just made the biggest mistake of my life. And to be honest, I just wanted him to know how I felt. I wasn’t that bothered about hearing it back. It was more of a ‘if I die tomorrow, I’d really like you to know this’ feeling, which is probably why it just popped out of my mouth like it did. He said he was glad I’d told him, because he’d rather know than not. The difference between us he said was that while I was more scared to say it than to feel it, he was more scared to feel it than to say it. It makes me wonder what happened with his ex of 3 years (note to self: must ask this question).

The upshot is that, so far anyway, nothing has changed. He’s said it doesn’t change anything for him as far as I’m concerned. He still wants to come over in January and I’m still going for an extended trip. His messages have been as sweet and romantic as they always have been. I honestly have never met anyone like him in the way he conducts himself (that I’ve seen so far anyway) and his basic attitude to life. It’s ridiculous but it reminds me of a line from American Beauty, where Thora Birch’s character says to the other one (sorry, bad memory) that her new neighbour is so self confident, it’s not real. That’s how I feel. And I hope, I sincerely hope that if it was this massive problem, he’d have said so straight away. So I’m trying not to stress about the fact he’s not where I am, and trying not worry that I’ve inadvertently put the brakes on this with my mahoosive gob.

I’ve shown him my vulnerable side and I’m hoping he wont trample all over me. Because I’d be majorly, majorly gutted if he did.

Back To Reality

So I’ve returned from my weekend in France. And I really, really don’t want to be here. I’ve done literally diddly squat all day. This is not good!

After hopping on the Eurostar and changing metro lines in Paris like a pro, I jumped on the TGV to head south to Marseille. It was six and a half hours in total before I finally got to Marseille St Charles and saw the smiling face of The Frenchman as he waited for me on the platform. It was so good to see him again. It had only been 3 weeks but it felt like forever. My train had actually arrived a little late, which he was thankful for because he was late himself. The reason, he told me, was because he’d been busy making a pie. He’d never made one before but he wanted to have dinner waiting for me since I was arriving so late in the evening. I have to say, I was mighty impressed. His pie was delish and went well with his salad and home-made dressing, chocolates and ridiculous amount of wine. We spent the evening eating, catching up, having obscene amounts of sex and generally chilling out. It was so nice to be back there with him (and his cat, of course), it almost felt like I’d never left.

On Saturday, he woke me up quite early. “Have you finished sleeping?” he asked. I hadn’t but being kissed awake put an end to my laziness. What a wake up call indeed and let’s face it, sex is a perfect alarm clock. He fell asleep afterwards and because I’d brought my laptop to keep me occupied on the train, I decided to get some writing done. When he woke up, he asked to read some. My writing was a major bone of contention with my ex and he never once showed an interest in it, until I left. He ended up reading some on the Sunday and while I was embarrassed, he seemed genuinely interested in the story, asking about this and that and for translations around English expressions he’d never heard of. It was nice for him to show an interest in something that means so much to me. It was a really nice, chilled out day. We went for a drive into the mountains to see a Calanque (kind of like a bay) and even though I got a bit chicken at the idea of going all the way to the top, it was simply stunning. He goes running up there all the time and it made me feel pea green with envy. I’m not sporty at all compared to him (he runs, plays squash, tennis, golf and football on a regular basis) but just the fact that he was able to go running with that kind of scenery around him…it made me realise just how different our lives actually are. By the time we got back to his apartment, I had a headache from the freezing cold, windy weather, so we both lay on the sofa, him to watch football and me to nap. I knew he was a massive fan of Olympique Marseille but, actually, I think he’s just a football addict all over. This is a new one on me. My ex didn’t really watch it at all, but I’m thinking a football addiction is better than a drug one? No?

Anyway, that evening, we went for Pastis (a popular pre-dinner beverage. Bit aniseed-ish. Not that keen), then dinner and to a club. I had been curious as to whether he’d told his friends about me, not least because there’s this one girl on his Facebook who is just always there. There’s always one, isn’t there. In any case, I’m not bothered about her now, but still, I didn’t know if I was this dirty little English secret, so I asked him. He said he’s told his friends about me “sure, I have” he said. They think it’s great, apparently. Definitely and experience, if a little crazy. That said, he has friends who’ve ended up marrying their partners after long distance relationships, so it’s hardly out of this world. The main thing, he said, is that he’s happy and they can see it. When he talks about me, he has a smile. Aww. That was enough for me. It was a great, great night. Fabulous food, where we ended up staying in the restaurant until way past midnight, then onto a bar with live music and then onto a club. I really didn’t want the night to end but I was conscious of the fact that it was 3am and I only had one day left. I didn’t want to spend it all hungover, so we left.

We ended up having a long conversation about relationships, and trust. I’d made a friend in the club waiting in the overly long queue for the toilet and obviously, being English, I was more interesting than the run of the mill French women there. It was all super friendly and when I was back on the dance floor with The Frenchman, my new friend saw us and said hello. The Frenchman knows my last relationship was a bit…restrictive…and he seemed to struggle with understanding why. Sure, everyone says ‘oh yeah, I’m really trusting’ at the beginning of a relationship but with him, I believe it 100%. Just the fact we’re in this long distance set up means we have to trust one another and I still can’t get over the self-assurance which seems to ooze from his pores. I know he’s not sleeping with anyone else (I asked the question last week) and the reply I got was ‘there’s only one girl and that’s you.’ That’s more than enough for me.

I wish the weekend didn’t go so quickly. It felt like my feet hardly touched the ground. After getting in at 3am, speaking for another hour and half and then having a marathon sesh, we didn’t actually get to sleep til around 6am, which of course meant we woke up around midday on Sunday. By the time we’d dragged ourselves away form each other and out of bed, half the day had gone. Again, he slaved away in the kitchen (roast chicken this time) and we were both so knackered we decided to forego a drive to Le Vieux Port (The Old Harbour) and settled on the sofa with another bottle of wine and his cat to watch a film. The next thing I knew, it was time to go home. Almost. But the filler for this bit will go in a separate post – this one is long enough already.

Waking up on Monday morning was hard. Not only was I exhausted, I just didn’t want to go. His cat was meowing and kneading his paws on my face after having accompanied me everywhere the night before (even to the bathroom) and I was so comfortable with The Frenchman spooned around me. I couldn’t believe it was time to go already. The good news is, I didn’t cry this time. I don’t know if it’s because I was going on a train and not a plane, but the goodbye didn’t seem so gut wrenching this time. It felt more like I was going away on a trip rather than all the way back to London. It was hard, of course, but I managed to hold it in. Until this morning. I have no idea why I was so emotional. Maybe it was hearing Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds on the radio which now reminds me of him. Maybe it was waking up without him having gotten so used to it, so quickly.

Obviously, this is all reaaaaaalllyy condensed. I don’t want to bore anyone with minute details. Suffice it to say, it was easily one of the best weekends of my life. And now, I feel a bit lost. Which sucks arse. Because I really doubt I’ll see him before the end of the year, and it could be 6-7 weeks before I see him again. And that is a really, really long way away.