One of the things I miss about work, sometimes, is the jollies. In my line of work, there were many invitations to stay in smart hotels, to eat at fancy restaurants, to meet celebrities and to attend fabulous events.
DH’s job doesn’t really offer those types of perks so I was happy for him when he told me he’d been invited to attend an industry event that involved a dinner, an overnight stay and a morning’s work in a lovely hotel.
It’s a hotel in the UAE that I know, but at which I’ve never stayed. It looks lovely, so a little part of me was slightly sad that we wouldn’t be staying together in the gorgeous room, or taking a cheeky midnight dip together in the room’s private plunge pool, but I didn’t really mind.
DH BBM’d me from the hotel when he arrived.
“Room’s gorgeous,” he said. “Lovely pool.”
Sad ass that I am, I then went onto the hotel website and trawled the images to see exactly what his room would be like.
And then I realised I was jealous.
But not of the jolly (there was actually quite a lot of work involved). And not of the hotel room, nor of the big, soft bed. Not even of the private plunge pool and the delicious food that I wouldn’t have had to cook myself.
Oh no. My jealousy was focused absolutely entirely on DH’s ability to have a night’s sleep that wouldn’t end with the patter of bare size 24 feet at 5.30am. Lucky sod.