Back to Reality

They were home. Some 33,000 kilometres of planes, cars, ferries and trains. The non stop, uncomfortable and insomniac journey from Charles De Gaul was a distant memory and, most importantly, the Hat had made it.

There had been some close calls for the Hat – the vile people in row 34 and the fight for the overhead locker space – there was a point where she had almost lost all reason but the Husband had intervened, just in time to ensure WWIII had not broken out. She had listened later to those vile persons speaking to the crew and thought they were oxygen thieves. They were only in Premium Economy but those in row 34 acted like First Class snobs.

The Hat had caused multiple anxiety spikes throughout the 26 hour journey – the evil customs official who tried to stuff the Hat into an oh-too-small tray, the many conveyors and rubber curtains, each time heightening the anxiety levels. But it was now home with only a cursory glance from Australian airport officials, and it was unharmed, safe on her mannequin and she was already planning it’s next outing.

She had tried not to think of her fur kids while she was away … she had missed them so much and often imagined having them with her. They would have loved the English country walks and the freedom of the French farmhouse, but she suspected no fences would have meant no dogs. She couldn’t imagine them staying close, they were independent and adventurous like her. But still, those beautiful country lanes and open fields would have made for great dog walks.

When they had finally arrived home she had hardly waited for the engine to stop before getting out and running to the door. Walking into the house and seeing them had made her cry. They were equally as excited to see her. Not leaving her side and, even now after a week of being home, had continued to be her little shadows. The Husband had relinquished his grip on ‘dogs not sleeping with us’ rule and had let them stay with them that first night. She had needed their closeness and they had needed her and it had comforted her. She was sure too, just quietly, that he had needed it too.

But now they were back to their old routine. It had been a week now, battling jet lag, back at work and already wishing and planning for their next holiday, to see her family this time, in New Zealand. She had spent the morning spring cleaning, packing away her winter wardrobe, the need to relinquish the old to make way for the new. The music had been pumping and she felt relaxed, cleansed and ready for the warmth of summer to come.

And now it was time to relax and enjoy her Vodka and wait for the Husband to return from his day playing golf with his cronies. This trip had been amazing and the memories would forever remain – the family moments, the grandkids, the infamous dance off, the flight across the Channel with her wonderful pilot friend, the Farmhouse, the beautiful wedding and of course, Paris – but as she lay her in her outdoor patio, looking across the pool to the blue skies beyond, listening to the dogs barking at birds who dared enter the yard – she breathed in deeply, content to be home.