The phone rang earlier this morning. I scampered* to answer it, thinking it might be work.
It was Mr WithaY.
"Gosh! Hello!" I cried, delighted to hear his voice. "How are you? Where are you?" I expected him to say "Houston"...or maybe even "California".
"Heathrow airport" he replied, rather tetchily.
"Already? But you're not due there till Sunday! I'm coming to pick you up!"
Ahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaa but no.
What was written in my diary, which I had been working to, was complete bollocks. He landed at Heathrow this morning, and I wasn't there to bring him home. I must be eligible for some sort of Crap Wife Award, surely?
Fortunately, one of the other divers lives a few miles away and very kindly gave Mr WithaY (and all his dive kit) a lift home. Otherwise he'd have had a dull couple of hours while I drove up there to fetch him.
Anyway, he's home safe and sound, and is currently sleeping off his jetlag. In fact, it's time I took him a cup of tea and woke him up.
I'm glad he's back.
*Limped. My knees are a mess.