The day occurred because of a stupid mistake on my part.
I took off my coat because the train was far too warm, and somehow, between London and Hertfordshire I lost my wallet. Thank goodness it happened on the last part of my holiday or I would have been terribly inconvenienced. I had to cancel a bank card and I will need to replace my license and metro card, but otherwise, things are fine.
So, on that morning, the morning where I eschewed 2010 (which I have been instructed to "please, please call it twenty-ten") and I fully embraced 1953, I sent Mr. Hertfordshire off to work quite early as he must always reach the office before the market's bell tolls.
That morning, I woke up to see that he had made porridge and gorgeous coffee in an Italian contraption that looks like this:
At that very moment, I knew that the next couple of hours would be nothing but me and some extra holiday sleep. I wandered back to bed, tucked myself in under the duvet covers and fell back asleep.
And then I woke up for the second time ready to face the day.
I made the bed, did some tidying, put away laundry, watched a little bit of television, ironed some shirts, ate a quick lunch, and before I knew it, it was 4:00pm, and I needed to start dinner.
My job was to roast a chicken using an oven that was completely foreign to me. And after some whining to Mr. H about how to use his oven, I was able to get things started. Mr. H was hard at work, and I figured that he wanted to have tea on the table not too long after he arrived home from a strenuous day of whatever it is he does exactly.
The rest of the meal was fairly easy, and when Mr. H appeared in the flat, I was well on my way to having finished dinner. He walked over and greeted me warmly.
Thank goodness, I only needed to send him out for a few things to make the dinner complete. The gentleman didn't want to go to the store himself as he didn't want to have to remember what to get. But the chicken was in the oven, and so he was sent off to Sainsbury's with a list.
Before leaving for the store, he informed me about the day, and some client or another, and I put the water on for tea. I suppose I should have had a martini waiting for him as he walked through the door, but we can't all be perfect.
He came back quite promptly, gave me the last of my ingredients and I was able to finish dinner.
I continued to make preparations, and he sat down and completed a bit of writing and correspondence, and checked to make sure that our additional guests at dinner were able make it to the table on time. His younger flatmate and flatmate's girlfriend sat down at the dinner table--quite fresh faced and beautifully young and experiencing their burgeoning adulthood. Strangely contented, I felt my age and I enjoyed every moment of that feeling.
I did remark that I was feeling a little bit tired to which Mr. H replied, "Well, of course you are, you haven't done...anything...all...Notice how I stopped myself! Notice that."
I let it slide and then cleaned up the table and did the dishes.
Mr. H implored me to stop my continued cleaning, but his objections weren't heartfelt. He, of course, liked not having to do the washing up or cooking. He was relaxed and sitting on the sofa.
"Come over here and sit next to me and keep me company," he motioned by patting the empty seat next to him.
"I will in a moment, darling." I, of course, pronounced the word as daahling.
"I must admit," he said as he looked over to me from his comfortable seat, "I think that I might quite like having a traditional 1950s marriage."
Of course he would. Who wouldn't want a spouse not doing anything (i.e. doing everything) all day for him?
"Oh, and you ironed my shirts? Brilliant."
"You'll miss me when they've all been worn, you know."