Isolation, not desolation

God. If I were in my twenties, when I was a young and thrusting PR executive in West London, and could fast forward to my life now - well who would have thought?

Living alone with my two young children in the middle of nowhere, tonight I find myself in the pub down the road, listening to my Beloved Daughter's young friends playing the recorder and keyboards, while Alicia, daughter of Kind Neighbour, tap dances to the music, on a square white board. I have to admit, the youthful band is jolly good, and so is Alicia, who has now reached Grade 4.

It is the perfect jolly, warm scene of rural idyll, and I have recorded it on my camera to show my guests tomorrow how splendid life is in this remote hamlet.

I wonder what everybody might be thinking, if they notice at all, while I sit alone tucking into a surprisingly good Aubergine and Feta bake, the musicians' proud Mums huddled together on the sofa and the Dads standing at the bar, discussing farm subsidies over their Jail Ale.  I feel I'm not such a part of the local community any more, now that my children have moved from the wonderful village primary to their posh schools. The rest of our hamlet, who are mostly slightly older couples whose children have fled the nest, and have moved here since I arrived 17 years ago, have reconvened onto a long table.  I am not included.

I can't think of many other women who would be mad enough, or obstinate enough, to remain rattling around in their family home, determined to make it pay its way. And then turn up at the pub with just their small daughter for company, to enjoy a social, and to prevent themselves from making a mess in their own kitchen because its being rented out the next day.  I am very lucky indeed to know that Esteemed Partner will definitely be thinking of me, as he marks, literally, a million words of his students' dissertations, cosy in the cabin of his clapped-out trimaran, so stable on its mud bank in southern Portugal.

My feelings of mild isolation might have something to do with my current situation.  It's been like moving house today, waiting for someone else to take over my much loved home of so long.  Beloved Daughter and I are both hunkered down into my bedroom, she's on the hated air mattress, all our things piled high in the last spare room, needing to be retrieved and packed tomorrow.

I sat on the floor to watch telly last night because I didn't dare squash or stain the pristine white sofa and its plumped up cushions.  (I caught Twiglet lying on it this morning.) All the other rooms are closed to us, each waiting in its immaculateness for its new inhabitants.  It feels like camping in someone else's hotel.

Next time, when we know what to expect and half the things that we've had to worry about  on this first occasion will have been done, it will be much easier - it could almost become fun! It will be warmer, and we will be going directly off on a lovely holiday too.  It's not pleasant right now, but not many hours left until we are away, and then there won't be a lot to do except work out how to make the most of the next few days of transience.  I feel a visit to TK Maxx coming on...