I was going to write a long post about the pain of missing my children. They’re off on holiday with Mr X, and I’m certain they’re going to have a lovely time. But it’s a lovely time without me. Very hard. The trouble is, like labour pangs, it’s either the sort of pain you already know, because you have children, or you don’t – and won’t be able to imagine. There was a cartoon by Steven Appleby in last Saturday’s Guardian (yes, I do read it, whisper it softly in the Village though) which summed it up. The first bunch of frames were about the chaos of living with children – sticky kitchen floor, toxic substances down the side of the sofa, toothpaste on the computer, etc. The last had a man sitting in a pristine flat, alone, with a little caption saying something like: ‘I know where my TV remote control is. But if I have a heart attack, it could be three weeks before they find my body.’ I suppose I feel like that without my little dears. I am empty. I am pointless. Life is bleak. But at least I know that, if I died, it wouldn’t be three weeks before I was found. They’re back in two.
