Greetings from Jolly old England, where I am six hours ahead of the time zone my heart prefers to keep.  My husband lost his father last week, to a long struggle with diabetes.  I’ll make it home just in the nick of time for the funeral, which means five days away from Eric when he needs me. 

I feel like a cretin.  I also know that he would have killed me if I’d backed out of this obligation.

And you know what the man went and did now?

He sent me flowers to my shi-shi London hotel.  That’s right.   He’s worried about me worrying about him, so he sends me a sussie.  Now I feel guilty for that, too, but in the best, most grateful, pinch-me-he’s-a-dream way.  How did he do that?

The flowers were entertaining, too.  The front desk woke me up from my post red-eye snooze (how the hell can anyone sleep on an airplane, even in business class…which, of course, rocks whether you are asleep or awake) to ask if it was okay for them to bring a little surprise up to me. 

That’s the kind of wake up call I like.

The card was addressed to Mrs. Hutchins.  The inside read “From Mr. Hutchins.”   This is the proper British way of saying “I love you, you sexy creature, from Eric.”  The British are probably the ones that made Mary Tyler Moore and Dick Van Dyke pretend they slept in separate twin beds on the Dick Van Dyke sitcom, too.

I loved it.

I love them.

I love my husband.

And I will love seeing his face when I arrive, tired and worried on Friday night.

I really, really hate not being there.  It makes it hard to enjoy here, and here is pretty awesome.  Just a lot less awesome than it would be together, and reduced by a factor of ten due to the loss of Gene.

Send my husband some virtual support and love, peeps.  Life lessons in business travel #3273: the difficulty of getting home will always be inversely proportional to your need to be there.

Pamelot

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