I live a quiet life: minding the house and garden, managing moods (including my own, if I’m honest), and dealing with downpours.
My husband and two youngest sons are in Portugal. They send photos of sun, sea and sand, along with a daily sprig of flowers. Which is thoughtful.
For various reasons I have stayed at home. I have my daughter for company, and my eldest son for a challenge.
My daughter and I make the most of it. We blend hummus, drink coffee and tea, and become green-fingered. The sun warms with a proper heat, and is succeeded by stormy nights. We persuade ourselves that we are as happy as home birds.
More food follows (it’s lunchtime, and I look at my own with doubt).
The daily flowers.
The Moorish tiles.
And the passion of flamenco.
My husband isn’t short of a shot of emotional intelligence or two. This is all part of a slow-burn, steady and careful campaign. One day, maybe mañana, could this be home?
Well, it beats the rain forecast for my mañana.
But then my husband lets slip that the city is hoaching with tourists, just as I sit solo in my garden with a very British cup of tea. I bask in the peace granted by the momentary absence of all four of my children.
Okay – a neighbour’s boy is not at all happy with his sibling, as I detect from his wretched scream. I feel for his mother, but my empathy is fleeting, and I’m back to where I was: on my own in my garden, with not a single tourist or soul in sight.
This is today. Right now.
Mañana is another story.