Husband was supposed to be back in New Zealand on 1 July. Around about the time he should have been adjusting his seatbelt by pulling sharply on the toggle, he rang to say – not that the flight attendant was about to tackle him and confiscate his phone, or even to express his disappointment with the inflight entertainment – that he had to stay in Dubai another week.
For Andrew, a single, terse ‘sorry’ covers pretty much everything: spilt tea, forgetting your anniversary, accidentally selling your Calvin Klein watch on Trademe. There has been little in our shared history that warrants a triple- or even a double-sorry. But this time he was incredibly, superfluously, profusely apologetic. He must have felt really bad.
Either that, or I’m ferocious.
However, he sounded so awful and stressed on the phone that, when I tried to muster up some indignant self-righteous rage, all that came out was, “Just do what you have to and come home.” I think I might even have added ‘Sweetie’.
I swear, I’m getting mellow. It must be the effect of being so recently old. Ever since some fumble-fingered fucker (sorry about the profanity; I would have gone for fumble-fingered git but it lacked the alliterative impact) threw a full cup of coffee over me three minutes into the 20 hour plane trip from Dubai to New Zealand, I have achieved a sort of zen-like calm.
Although I do kick the dog more.
SO I’m collecting Husband from Picton Airport tomorrow and I just can’t wait. When I finish this post, I’m going to stand in the middle of the living room and declaim, over and over, “I can’t- I simply can’t wait. It’s not a case of ‘won’t’ or ‘don’t want to’ or ‘couldn’t be arsed’, I CAN’T because it is IMPOSSIBLE, this waiting. I JUST CAN’T WAIT.”