I've spent about four days with the poet in the last month. All but one was a work day, so that would be four brief mornings while I scrambled to get ready for work and he tried to pretend it wasn't time to get up, and three evenings (me being otherwise engaged in therapeutic matters on Thursdays). Ah, and the sleeping time - remind me not to get too used to having the bed to myself next time he goes away. All those elbows and knees in my space, dammit!
Add to these brief interludes the fact that his usual poet workaholic-busyness was at a peak due to the time away from his desk (I should mention that the poet doesn't only write poetry, he also writes articles and essays and does a lot of teaching, so a desk is necessary for some of those activities), and you get a slightly disgruntled new wife who misses her new husband. It is of course completely irrelevant that we lived together for 6 years before we got married...
His mercy dash to Italy where his mum was taken ill (she's fine now after surgery for a hernia) took him away for two weeks and a day, not that I was counting, and then a few days later he headed off to Spain for seven days, teaching on a residential creative writing workshop. To be fair, it's harder on him than on me, he's putting the finishing touches to his latest book and it all keeps getting delayed further. Poor thing, and now he's having to put up with all that sun and sangria.
I have rediscovered the wimpy, unreconstructed needy chick in me though. Seriously, two days of not hearing from him due to phones not being available at the right time, my calling just after he left for somewhere etc etc and I am verging on weepy. One little call, one dose of his voice, and things are rosy again. I am so ashamed.
Still, there have been laughs. Like the time I called his aunt's house (the poet's family's house does not have a phone as it's only occupied a couple of weeks a year) to speak with him and the only person home was his (curiously attractive) 70-odd-year-old uncle. Who does not speak English. Not one word. And while I did do a night course in Italian a while back, it didn't really take. Thank goodness 'ok' seems to be universally understood.
And I did love the way the poet answered the phone (when he knew it was me) with 'hello'. In an Italian accent.
Come home soon poet. And stay a while. I promise not to kick you too many times when I'm trying to get comfortable and you are taking up the entire bed...
Add to these brief interludes the fact that his usual poet workaholic-busyness was at a peak due to the time away from his desk (I should mention that the poet doesn't only write poetry, he also writes articles and essays and does a lot of teaching, so a desk is necessary for some of those activities), and you get a slightly disgruntled new wife who misses her new husband. It is of course completely irrelevant that we lived together for 6 years before we got married...
His mercy dash to Italy where his mum was taken ill (she's fine now after surgery for a hernia) took him away for two weeks and a day, not that I was counting, and then a few days later he headed off to Spain for seven days, teaching on a residential creative writing workshop. To be fair, it's harder on him than on me, he's putting the finishing touches to his latest book and it all keeps getting delayed further. Poor thing, and now he's having to put up with all that sun and sangria.
I have rediscovered the wimpy, unreconstructed needy chick in me though. Seriously, two days of not hearing from him due to phones not being available at the right time, my calling just after he left for somewhere etc etc and I am verging on weepy. One little call, one dose of his voice, and things are rosy again. I am so ashamed.
Still, there have been laughs. Like the time I called his aunt's house (the poet's family's house does not have a phone as it's only occupied a couple of weeks a year) to speak with him and the only person home was his (curiously attractive) 70-odd-year-old uncle. Who does not speak English. Not one word. And while I did do a night course in Italian a while back, it didn't really take. Thank goodness 'ok' seems to be universally understood.
And I did love the way the poet answered the phone (when he knew it was me) with 'hello'. In an Italian accent.
Come home soon poet. And stay a while. I promise not to kick you too many times when I'm trying to get comfortable and you are taking up the entire bed...
1 comment:
I thought I was the only needy and whinging chick in north london. I feel your pain Anne! But at least 'the poet' is comming home in 2 days :-) He hasn't got anymore trips away planned, has he? I hope not, I miss Uncle M too! x
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