Off on holidays on Monday, the annual pilgrimage to central France. I don't deny I love the place and France as a whole, but it's been the sort of year where I don't feel like I've either earned or deserved a holiday. But it's not something I'm going to pass up on, obviously.
Usually the dogs go to kennels and a friend or neighbour is on cat duty. This year the dogs are indeed going to their own luxury holiday camp but instead of a daily visitor for feline food, litter and stroking tasks, a friend of the NB is going to house sit.
Someone is going to be in my house for ten days.
Obviously it's fine. She's a trustworthy sort and everything. But, well, it does feel kind of odd. Would it feel odd to you? For all the security worries anyone has when leaving their home empty while on holiday, the prospect of somebody actually being there still leaves an awkward taste in the mouth.
I haven't got kids, but I imagine that it's a similar feeling when you hire a babysitter or a nanny for the first time so you can go back to work (or head to the pub). It's that first moment of trust, where you look into someone's eyes and, without using the actual words, say: "I am essentially putting the single most important and precious thing in my life into your hands. I hope you understand just how reliant I am on you." Well, in the absence of kids, the house is top of this list for me. But when she comes round on Monday all I'll do is say: "Have fun, there's extra cat food in the garage and the window cleaner will want his money on Wednesday. And don't go through my underpants drawer."*
Back about ten days afterwards then, hopefully with a hodgepodge of photographs akin to the ones that some members of blogland surprisingly really liked last year.
*Of course I won't really say that.