Himself-less.

(No, it's not one of my cats, but it's too perfect for this post to pass up.)

This weekend, I will admit, was marvellous.

On Saturday, I didn't wake up until past ten o'clock in the morning. I was brought coffee and peanut butter toast in bed. I lazed with a book, I faffed with the moggies, I luxuriated in the lack of activity.

If you'll recall, Himself was leaving that day for his "not a stag do" do. I left the house around half noon, before he had to leave, and headed for central London. I went to the wholesale jewellery shop and bought more headbands for my Etsy offerings, I window shopped to my heart's content, and I spent an inordinate amount of time (and a fair amount of money) in the haberdashery department at John Lewis. Throughout all of this was the gratifying knowledge that it didn't matter how long I dallied (or dillied, for that matter) because there was no bored man in attendance.

I went home via the shops and picked up dinner for myself and the mogs, and what did I find upon re-entering the House of Gabs? Himself had made the bed and done the dishes before he left. Smug.

I spent the evening on the sofa with the moglets and girlie tv. I did some knitting, drank some wine, ate some Swedish chocolate that a workmate gave me last week. I slept dead centre in the bed, and only woke up on Sunday when Kit went digging frantically at the duvet next to my face in a bid to get under the covers with me. Cinnamon bun and coffee in bed with a book, some light tidying (laundry's not really a burden, I'm sick that way) and Himself came home around six and bought us dinner from Deliverance.

All in all, I count it a win. I wonder if he has any more "not a stag do" do's in the next few months...