Like Ships in the Night

100 years of Solitude? Maybe not, but two and half weeks felt close. Anna, my wife, went to Aberdeen at the start of the month, to look after her mum, who was having her third hip replacement, leaving me to fend for myself. 

After the novelty of eating Super Noodles every night, unlimited wine and 24/7 ownership of the remote control wore off, the loneliness set in. Like Tom Hanks in Castaway, I grew an enormous beard and started talking to inanimate objects around the house “Hello Lamp”, that sort of thing.

While Florence Nightingale was living it up in Scotland, cooking, cleaning, listening to her dad shouting at the TV...I sat at home, trying to keep body and mind together, under my electric blanket, in darkest January...with only the cat and a mouse (who has been residing behind the plasterboard), to keep me company. I lay awake at night, listening to the little fella nibbling on electric cables, my mind started playing tricks on me...a moaning filled the house as the wind whistled down the chimney...I heard a creak on the stairs! What was that? The cat jumped on the bed...I cried out...but no one heard.

I tried to fill my day; keeping myself busy with winter walks, DIY projects, a bit of light shopping in Lidl; but sitting in PMU with a glass of wine on my own didn't have it's usual appeal. 

After 16 long days Nantes Atlantique airport beckoned. I felt nervous at being reunited. I had forgotten what she looked like; I might drive past her at the pick up point. 

That evening, after she'd inspected the house and commented on the build up of wine bottles and Super Noodle wrappers in the recycling, it was time to unpack/pack. Yes you heard right, dear reader... the next morning I was leaping on a train at Poitiers to attend a funeral in the UK. So as she was showing me all the new clothes she'd bought, I was stuffing four of everything, my suit, wash bag and pair of DMs into a very small suitcase. 

Having driven back from the UK just a few weeks earlier, I thought I would train it. I 'let the train take the strain' as Jimmy Saville used to say (if we're still allowed to mention that name). And it made a nice change, hurtling through France at 300km/h, reading my book and partaking in light refreshments from the buffet car (carriage 8 and 9). Clutching my Navigo card in hand I managed to successfully traverse Paris from Montparnesse Bienvenue to Gare du Nord. 

I had been overly cautious with my planning and arrived at the Eurostar terminal two hours early. But it gave me a chance to ring Anna, people watch and sip my six euro Cappuccino. 

All the trains were bang on time and having all the tickets uploaded on my phone made life very straight forward. I felt like Michael Portillo as I leapt from one train to another, I thought I might even purchase a copy of Bradshaw's 1863 Handbook for my next trip.

At Christmas we had had a big family party at my dad's house. It had been a very happy occasion. My lovely 82 year aunt Vicky had been in her element, loving all the family being together. She went to bed that night and didn't wake up. The whole family was in total shock; throughout the funeral I expected her to appear through a door smiling and laughing. 

The funeral was a lovely celebration of her life and she was given a wonderful send off; the service was well attended, with everyone saying what a special person she was. My brother and I managed to get through the eulogy, even when my mobile phone started ringing (I thought it might be Anna ringing for a chat). 

On the fourth day I stuffed everything back in my suitcase, said au revoir to dad and did the journey in reverse. I would definitely 'train it' in future; it was shorter, cheaper and I arrived at my destination not feeling like an empty plastic bag. 

Anna was waiting for me at Poitiers train station and it was lovely to think we were about to spend longer than 12 hours together. After a big hug she pinched and punched me on the arm and first-day -of-the-monthed me. We had entered février, goodbye janvier old friend, see you next year.