This One Goes Out To The One I Love

Almost two weeks spent at home was a double-edged sword. It's like eating a cake; during you are the happiest lady in the land, after you remember that nothing really does taste as good as skinny feels, and you're sad. I had my cake and I ate it.

Now I'm back to London, back to reality, I am again one. There is no brown haired boy attached to my hip and there is no-one to accompany me online shopping. Late night chats in bed have been replaced with grumpy phone calls, and the only music to my ears is music - in my ears.

There are no long walks with our favorite furry friends, and when I listen to Spotify every night there is no-one to tell me to turn it off. Not only that, there is no-one to benefit from my perfected Lady Gaga performances.

Living apart from my boyfriend is heart wrenching. It's fall-on-your-knees, Carrie Bradshaw jilted at the alter type feeling. Am I over dramatic? Yes. Carrie Bradshaw has a lot to answer for and I'm sure my boyfriend would concur.

I just long for the day when we again live under the same roof, me in my expensive silk nightdress and not needed man glasses, him showered. Reading the morning papers in our New York apartment, our little doggy snuggled on the bottom of the bed while I throw my fur over said nightdress and run downstairs for cawfee and bagels. Oh me. I want the one I can't have and it's driving me mad.