Off for a week’s holiday. I’m writing this on the last day of term. A few more hours and I’m heading west to pick up my beloved Owner and Goddess and we fly out to Dublin a matter of hours later.
Long-distance relationships are weird, but I’ve had so many now, I think I’ve ironed out most of the kinks (except the good sort, obviously.)
We find ourselves still (after eight months) on our best behaviour around each other. This is a positive. Familiarity is so far off it can’t breed consent, let alone contempt. Neither of us has seen the other unshaven and hung over – at least, not enough to see a pattern there. We’ve both (I feel) prioritised making the time we have together, **ALL** quality time. So far, this has worked.
This arrangement also leaves both of us plenty of time to focus on our respective jobs, offspring and lives.
On the downside, parting always feels like a scab being torn off slowly. Our first night apart has, for the last few months coincided with a sleepover at my work – talk about from the sublime to the ridiculous! Waking up in a single bed, without the Boss-Lady, sucks.
Over the last few months, we’ve managed more or less every second weekend together, which has been great.
We’ve also managed several holidays together (this’ll be our third). Holidays, just as with normal people, are great – an absolutely artificial world, one with no jobs, kids or grandkids. Long lies, time on our hands and money in our pockets. Y’know, like in FemDom pornography? We’re neither of us billionaires, but we *can*, through work, build up shared time off, where we can get up to no good without external influences.
As with the psychedelic experience, these times aren’t sustainable. We can do it for a few days, once every couple of months, then come back down to earth and make more time and/or money to have another one.
It’s not perfect, but what relationship is?
This way, we come together, recharge our respective batteries, then pull apart and get on with all the mundane daylife things – and writing.
For my writing schedule, this relationship works a lot better than being stuck in an enclosed space with someone day in, day out.
Why not read the novel that started it all? 1919 (inside)
A love story – on home-made acid – narrated by someone first used romatically, then set on fire, by the blue peter team, capering around the pyre like wrinkled vikings.