Drôle de guerre. That's what they called the time between peace and full-on war in 1939. That's what this is - the time before Kevin goes away for six months. Instead of the usual frenetic work, we're here listening to the metaphorical clock ticking as tomorrow afternoon approaches. Life as we know it has moved from planning to almost executing. Waiting.
This morning, when I opened the front door to take Whisky for his constitutional - surprise snow, falling in big flakes. Drifting.
Everything has been packed and re-packed. Everything has been washed - except the bed linen and towels. Monday is washing day, just like in the song, but this week it'll wait until Tuesday.
In Venlo, a flat awaits. 600-ish square feet apparently. Enough for one person to park their life away from home for six months.
Six months. A long time apart, but not long enough to pack up home, job, cabin-in-the-woods and follow with the small dog.
Standing by the water's edge.
Life in the margins.
Time will stretch and ping back.
With luck.
