As I am wondering around my house, every once in a while I see something that needs to be done before tomorrow’s visit of my beloved. Here the floor needs mopping, there a window needs wiping clean, and over yonder there are cobwebs that need removing. But I have no intention of touching anything before she leaves her home and starts the long journey to Motovun. Not a thing. The three hours will be just enough to bring the house in order. Painfully aware of all the perils awaiting her on the busy road, I will work like a maniac. Wielding brooms and mops and sponges, I will dash hither and thither like a banshee. By the time she arrives, the house will be sparkling clean. And smelling like it, too. Attempting any of the many chores before their time would only deprive me of something meaningful to do while my beloved is in danger. I shudder at the thought.