A second chance to say goodbye

So, as previously documented I said goodbye to my new fiancé (love typing that) and returned home to the comfort of my fast growing collection of wedding magazines and the remains of a chocolate yule log.

He was going back to work, having been called in a day earlier – cue changed flights and quiet resignation from me, hardly surprised by his plans changing yet again at the drop of a beret. Got to love HM Forces.

I got on with returning to normal life, went out and got festively merry on New Year’s Eve, flashed my sparkler at all who came within a 100 metre radius, watched the fireworks in London, and miraculously avoided seeing in 2013 with a killer hangover.

Happy New Year: My attempt at photographing fireworks over the London skyline

Then it was back to work again where my boss allowed me five minutes to discuss wedding plans with the girls in the office before I was ordered back to the grindstone.

Meanwhile The Boy was finding that his work load was altogether lighter.

Having been hauled back to report on the Saturday morning he was in work for all of half an hour before being stood down until the morning of New Year’s Eve, when the same thing happened again – this time until January 2.

So despite being back in Cyprus he had completed around an hour of actual work in the five days he had been there, and was getting mightily pissed off about it.

Then he was told that his flight to Bastion had been cancelled and instead of flying out on Friday he had an extra two days.

I suspect his brain had been addled by too much New Year’s champagne when he decided that he might as well use the extra time to fly home for a whistlestop overnight stay.

When he told me of his plan my initial thought was “You’re crazy, it’s so expensive and we are supposed to be saving for a wedding now, not to mention a spare bed that still hasn’t been purchased despite the fact that we moved into our house a year ago”.

But soon I was desperately hoping that he’d been able to find a flight, and when he told me on Thursday that he would see me the next day I was overjoyed.

Having cried buckets when he went back to Cyprus a week earlier I was worried that the second time it would be even harder, although in fact the opposite was true.

Instead of thinking “I don’t want you to go!” my overriding emotion was “I’m so happy you’re back”, and we spent a wonderful evening drinking Champagne and mojitos, and I even put my 1950s wife skills to the ultimate test by making dinner.

When it came to take him to the airport I was still happier that I had got to spend the extra time with him than I was sad he was going. I love that he spent eight hours on planes just to spend one more night with me. Turns out my rugby playing, kickboxing soldier is something of a romantic.

Now he really has gone, and we said our last goodbyes on the phone this morning.

The next time we talk will be on a satellite phone, I can no longer send him a simple text message, and my only means of contacting him instantly are firing off numerous emails and eblueys that he may or may not be able to read.

The thought of the next three months apart feels like an aching dull thud in the pit of my stomach, although I am grateful that it will only be a short tout – unlike the two seven month stints he has done in the last three and a half years.

However, this time there is another difference in the fact that when he comes home we will be about to really start our future together. In his words “when I come home we’ll get married”.

It’s sad that he has gone but at the same time I feel excited about what is to come.

And I’m not the only one. I had an email from his mum today where she summed the whole situation up rather well.

“So if its ok with you we have decided we haven’t lost a son/brother but gained a daughter/ sister. So Christmas 2012 will be remembered not for shortened holidays but for true romance in the story book style.”

Here’s to that!