Getting to know a city

I have always enjoyed getting to know new cities. I loved having an A to Z in my handbag when I lived in London, and rising to the challenge of finding the easiest and quickest way of getting from one place to another using the various public transport options. When I got a car, I had a big-scale street atlas, and I'd plan routes before I set off to try and identify short cuts. I'd have the atlas open on the passenger seat, and dip into parking spots here and there, getting the next segment of the journey imprinted in my brain. I became skilful at spotting "rat runs" while driving - sitting in a traffic jam, and noticing how a stream of cars were turning down a seemingly insignificant street, following them in faith, and emerging quarter of a mile further along the busy blocked road, feeling triumphant.

On foot, too, I always enjoyed exloring back ways and by-ways, discovering little corners seemingly forgotten. I was always amazed at how, in a city of several million, you could take just one or two turns off a busy thoroughfare, and be in a near-empty street.

I suppose all this has got very much easier with phone apps and Google Maps, though I have to say I derived a lot of fun from working out in my head and through time-worn experience, what the satellites above us calculate in seconds in their efficient algorithms.

Each time I've moved during my adult life (which has been a few), I've really relished getting to know a new town or city. I like finding my way round the traffic systems, the public transport, the parking, in a way that I think probably deserves the adjective 'geeky'. I can tell you, for example, at what point the parking zone changes between where I live and the city centre, because I've looked at the parking zone map buried deep as a pdf on the council website. (In my defence, I wasn't working for the first year we were here, and had plenty of time on my hands.) I love finding the nicest parks, the funkiest shopping streets, the best coffee shops. My children tease me, because I have a rule that if we can, we should always support local coffee shops not the big chains, but to me, that has significance: I like getting to get to know the personality of a city, and you can't do that by hopping from Starbucks to Starbucks.

I do use a GPS, but I've noticed that it does mean that it takes much longer to learn your way round, and so in my early days here, I chose not to use it. I suppose my brain has learnt to understand a city by looking at a map, and then translating the bird's eye 2D view into human 3D experience. I like to hold the whole route in my mind, in chunks if necessary, and the GPS only ever reveals the next junction. It feels a precarious way of travelling.

I find it fascinating how a city shrinks as you get to know it. Familiarity makes journeys shorter both in reality, and in the way they feel. In reality, you need less time because you know how to avoid the traffic, where to park, and how far you'll have to walk. When you're new in a city, you have to allow generous margins for error. But the journeys are also shorter in how they feel. Instead of concentrating on the road, looking out for signs, focusing on the GPS instructions, you have the radio on, or you're thinking about Christmas plans.

When we first moved to the city where I now live, I found a furniture shop that had a sale on. I looked at a map, and headed off. It felt like a proper venture. I parked in a side street which was a dead end, and got very stuck, having to do a 3-point turn that became a 7- or 9- point turn. I went to the shop, found a cafe for a sit-down, and then headed home, checking first that I knew how to navigate the journey. It makes me laugh inwardly now, when I pass that furniture shop, because it's a five minute walk from my work. I think absolutely nothing of the drive to work (or the bus journey if Husband needs the car). It's fifteen to twenty minutes, door to door. I know where to park (and would never head down that tiny dead end). The cafe which was formed part of a morning's outing when I had time on my hands, has become the cafe I pop into to grab a quick sandwich at lunchtime.

The vet is another example. The first time I had a vet's appointment, I allowed plenty of extra time. I didn't know where the building was, where I would park, how long it would take to get a lively puppy on the lead and out of the car safely, and I wanted to be early for the appointment, as a model puppy-owner should be. The journey seemed quite a trek. Now, I allow about ten minutes to get to the vet, all told. It's really very near: 1.4 miles according to Google Maps and "4 min without traffic". I go straight to a street round the corner which has an uncommonly wide pavement that everyone parks on, and where there's always space. I no longer wonder if it's ok to park there and if I'll get a ticket. I just park. Or I walk - 28 minutes according to Google Maps. If you'd told me three years ago, when I was planning my first drive to the vet, that I could walk there, I would have thought you must be one of those seriously hearty city-dwellers who live in walking boots and an anorak, with a permanent backpack. But it is, indeed, only about 30 minutes, and most of it along a convenient cycle path.

The other factor, in my shrinking journey time to the vet, is that I now plan to arrive at the very last minute, or even a minute or two late, as Hector gets over-excited in the waiting room and barks incessantly. We were once asked to wait outside - oh, the humiliation. Hector gets over-excited, and I sit wondering if someone is going to bring in a snake and planning my escape route for that eventuality - the vet waiting room is not a relaxing place for us. Thus it is that what, in my head, used to be an afternoon's outing, is now a small task on the calendar, to be fitted in easily and quickly between other bits of life. My days are busier, time is more precious and has done that elastic thing that time does, but geography has done it too. The city has definitely shrunk.

.

Seven years on; two years back; five years out

Well, life trots on, doesn't it? This blog started off, in May 2007, seven years ago for heaven's sake, as the witterings of a lonely expat Brit mother, deep in the heart of the Midwest, trying desperately to make sense of her new environment, and heartily grateful for every other expat blog, and every other parent blog, which made her feel not alone. We called writers of parent blogs "Mummy Bloggers" in those days, and I seem to remember I used to put a hyphen in "expat". Things change...

What I'd never really thought, until I read this post, was that I was one of a small number of women, who got the whole Mummy Blogging thing going in the UK. It was pretty well established in the US, but I guess I was part of the small wave that traversed the Atlantic. I feel a bit proud of that.

I haven't really kept up with the great surge that that small wave became. Blogging for me was always about writing, and the social media side of things didn't really appeal. I'm now having to get to grips with social media, as I'm in charge of "Commmunications" in my job. I've been saying for this first year that fundraising has got to be my priority, and that's right. There'll be nothing to communicate about, unless the money comes in and the salaries are paid. However, I'm thinking that in time, I can get myself off on a few training courses, and maybe develop a new interest and expertise. The organisation's website is hosted on Wordpress, and though I've never used Wordpress myself, my experience in blogging has given me a definite headstart there. If nothing else, it means I can talk to our lovely volunteer who is revamping it, without sounding too totally ignorant.

Life, as I said, trots on. I'm now two years back from my expat adventure. I always think it takes two years to settle in a place - especially if you have children and are bound into the school year. The first year, everything is new and you feel like an outsider, and it's all a huge effort. Life is exhausting, just trying to be in the right place at the right time, with the right child, and armed with the right equipment. Because you're trying to make friends, you're having to be super-friendly all the time. Yes, it's tiring. Then the second year is much easier. You're no longer the newbie. The new newbies don't know if you've been there one year or ten. To them, you're just part of the fabric, and so you begin to feel so. There's still that sense of newness though - this year it's become a sense of relief, that you know what to expect at each event you go to, each thing in the school calendar. You won't be the person in jeans, when everyone else has dressed up. But that sense of relief is in itself a signal that you're still a bit new. It's a detachment, as if you're looking on yourself from outside the action, reflecting "this is better than last year, because last year I was new, and now I'm not so new". I always think that it's the third year when you feel properly settled, because you stop stepping back and analysing. You're just getting on with your life.

But here I am, in blogging indulgence as ever, by which I mean that blogging always allows you that stepping back and analysing. Two years back... Yes, we're settled here, and I don't miss my life in the US any more. Just occasionally, like when we were driving through Normandy on holiday, and it was so flat, and the way the light looked and felt as evening drew on, at the edge of the flatness, made me think of the Midwest, and our long road trips there. But it feels like a memory now, not a loss.

The other milestone that I've passed this summer is that I'm five years out from my cancer diagnosis. That really feels odd. When you're going through the treatment, the idea of being five years out seems like a long-distant mirage in the desert. Life will be all well, if only you can reach it. Well, it's not quite like that. For me, approaching the five years made me rather agitated and churned up. I found a thickening around my mastectomy scar, which I went and got checked out, and which was nothing. It's probably been there for most of the five years! But of course that was quite an anxious process to go through. The doctor was so nice and kind, though. I asked him whether other people get panicky in the run-up to the five years anniversary, and he said, yes, it was very common. He gave me the impression that his diary is littered with women finding unnerving lumps and bumps, just as they approach that five year point. It's always so reassuring to know one is normal!

I've got an appointment later in the autumn, to assess what medication is best for me, and I'm not relishing that prospect. It's so long since I've had to make decisions about cancer, and it's often a trade-off: side effects of medication versus percentage risks of not taking it - those kinds of things. It always used to give me that feeling of "But I didn't want cancer in the first place!", and though I'm not in the same place emotionally now, I'm guessing those feelings can come flooding back.

However, I'm making it sound all a bit negative, and it really isn't. I do think that coming through cancer has given me a bigger zest for life, and an ability to tap into a well of joy that sits deep within me. Is this what people call "faith"? It was always there, but I can access it much more quickly now. And because life is full of joy and hope and is to be celebrated, I'm having a big party in the autumn, when I turn 50. It'll be a birthday party, and a thanksgiving. It's going to be a ceilidh, so there'll be dancing. Also curry, puddings, and wine. The guest numbers are a little out of control, but I'm in exuberant mode. I'm celebrating!

.

How to get things over the Atlantic: people and money

Well, our American friends did make it. They had two nights on the West Coast instead of four, which was a shame, but then we had a lovely few days together here. Lovely.

Speaking of the difficulty of getting things over the Atlantic, I don't think I ever told you about the woes of getting our money over, when we sold our house in America. It's a bad enough feeling to be paying a monthly mortgage on a house which isn't shifting, but when you've finally sold it, have been to the American Consulate to sign all the papers in front of a notary, and spent an anxious day waiting for the confirmation email from your realtor, the last thing you want to find is that you can't get your money over to join you. That's a very bad feeling.

Before we left the US, we checked with the Bank of America (with whom we'd had a current account for 5 years) how we would get our money over into our UK account. Oh, no problem, they said. Hah. What they hadn't told us was that we would spend hours and hours... and hours... trying to work out how to transfer a large sum of money abroad. Hours spent online, and hours spent on the phone, getting through all their security systems, and trying to speak to an actual human, and then indeed speaking to an actual human or two, before finally admitting defeat. I suppose, to be fair to them, as a bank, you're always setting up systems which have to juggle ease of customer use against security. A tough balancing act. I'm trying to be fair-minded here. The last thing I would have wanted is for someone else to have nabbed that money. However, I have to say that the last straw wasn't the hours of frustration (at least a full working day...), but the fact that ultimately we couldn't even do it - I don't like being ultimately thwarted. It also rankled that we'd taken steps to check in advance, and had been assured there'd be no problem.

I can't even remember all the details, but I do recall that the bank wanted to send us a security code by mobile phone. The mobile phone had to be a US mobile phone. We, of course, didn't have one by that stage. We were working on some cunning plan whereby we gave the number of a friend's mobile phone in the US, and then they emailed us the code, and then we phoned the bank, but there was some reason why we couldn't do that - I can't remember exactly. Foiled again! Whenever we found some possible way, there was always a ceiling which was a few thousand pounds, and having sold a house, we needed a higher ceiling than that. We must have been desperate, because I remember at one point working out with Husband what would be the cost of getting the money out of a cashpoint till in the UK, little by little, over weeks, using our Bank of America debit card. Not a great option, and we worked out it would be hugely expensive.

What we did in the end was to set up an account with a company that specialises in money transfer. It felt a bit risky, but Husband did lots of research online, and the reviews seemed ok. World First worked fine for us. It didn't have that nice, solid, big institution feel to it that Bank of America did, but I guess we're the last generation who will feel emotionally drawn to that kind of big bank for safety. Those big institutions have really let the consumer down over the past decade or so, and they're going to have a lot of competition from people like World First, who we found to be very customer-focused and efficient.

Travelex is another foreign currency exchange company who specialise in international money transfers. I have no direct experience of Travelex, but if you're on the learning curve that we had to climb up, then do yourself a favour and take a short cut. Read some reviews, have a look at some expat chat forums. These new, lean, internet-based companies have a lot to offer the expat.

Disclaimer: For writing this post, I received a small payment from Travelex. The views are my own.
.

House

As you'll know if you read this post, my mother has just moved out of her house, downsizing and moving near to my brother. She and my father moved into that house in 1963, so it has been the family home throughout all my life. It's a characterful old house, a former farmhouse, in a beautiful setting. I was down there for a week over half-term, with Husband and the children, and it was a good week, albeit a heavy one. I wrote some reflections.

Look. There's me. I'm being born. November. Half past six in the evening. I'm being delivered by my grandmother and the community midwife. My parents' bedroom. Two windows, one facing west, one facing south. I wonder what my first sight is, when I open my eyes. The midwife? My grandmother? My mother's smiling face? Or the brown wooden railings of the bedhead? That bedhead is still there. Maybe that bedhead, which now sports a sticky label "Bedroom 1", was the very first thing I ever saw.

Look. There's me. I'm two and a half, and my brother is being born in his turn, in my parents' bedroom. My grandmother is here again, and the community midwife, but they can't both be with my mother. My grandmother has to spend precious moments with me. I know something is going on, and I want to know what. I want to see. I want to go into my mother's room. I won't settle in my own bed. There's my grandmother, singing to me, stroking me, outwardly lulling me gently, but inwardly hard urging me to sleep.

Look. There's me. I'm sitting up in the big Silver Cross pram, opposite my brother. You can take a square section of the floor out, leaving a well for a child to put their feet when they sit upright. My feet are in the square, but so are his, and I'm kicking him. It's fun, but I'm annoyed with him too. My mother is stopping us. "Behave, or we won't go out." This is my earliest memory.

Look. There's me. I'm at school now. I'm in my blue school uniform, and I have a brown satchel, which I like, but not as much as my friend Catherine's one. Mine is a dull brown, but hers is a shiny chestnutty brown. On summer days, we walk home from school through the orchards, kicking the cut grass with our school shoes.

Look. There's me. I'm jumping around on straw bales  in the farm with my brothers, sister and cousins. We know we're not allowed to climb on the machinery, or go into the cow pens. But we're allowed on the straw bales in the barn, and there's a lovely shivery feeling of danger and strangeness in that big barn, which is so empty and echoey and huge, and it always feels as if we're naughty interlopers when any of the farmhands come by. They know us, though, and leave us alone. My mother rings a bell out of the kitchen window when it's time to go home.

Look. There's me. I'm doing my O' levels and I'm sitting at my desk, working. The garden is hot outside, and I can hear the lazy hum of a bumble bee as it drones past the window. I have the Capital Radio Daily Top 10 on the radio, which I let myself listen to every day, before turning the radio off to concentrate more on my books. Just under my window is the porch over the front door, and when I was younger, I used to think it fun to go out of my bedroom window onto the porch, and into the bathroom from there. Of course it wasn't allowed. We did it anyway.

Look. There's me. I've just moved to London, and started work. The city is big and lonely, and I feel I have no idea what I'm doing. I don't really understand my job, but I'm meant to be good at it, as a graduate trainee. I come home often for Sunday lunch, and somehow the comfort of it makes Monday morning less intimidating.

Look. There's me. It's the 'do' after my father's funeral, and we're outside in the garden in the sunshine - which is odd, come to think of it, since it's early March. I don't really want to talk to anyone, but I have to. Someone asks me whether my mother will stay on in the house. What a strange question to ask someone at a funeral.

Look. There's me. I'm sitting in the garden in the sunshine, more than 41 weeks pregnant with my first child. That last contraction made me shift in my chair. This really is it. My mother has friends round, and I don't want to be dramatic, but my sister-in-law notices and, eyes wide for effect, mouths "GO HOME!" at me.

Look. There's me. We've been back from America for long summer weeks, based at the house, and returning to it from trips elsewhere round the UK. We're all packed up and the taxi to the airport will be here soon, and I'm doing 'the sweep'. I walk through each room, eyes travelling across every flat surface, including the floor, looking for stray items. I think I'm pretty good at the sweep, opening drawers, crouching down to peer under beds, but we always leave a few items: laundry in the airing cupboard, favourite toys under pillows, books under piles of newspapers. My mother holds them as hostage till the next visit. I hate the sweep now. Gone are the days when we're only heading off a few hours away in the car, when the pride of maternal efficiency is the main emotion. Now I can't even meet my mother's eyes as she greets me in the hall with her "Got everything? Well done! You're so organised! " It feels like I'm sweeping away the whole summer, leaving it behind us as we return to our lives in America. Our other lives.

Look. There's me. Back for another summer. Sitting in the garden with Paradise. She's a blogging friend, and I've got to know her so well through emailing, pouring out our expat woes, me from America, she from Albania. Here we are, meeting in the flesh, in real life. We share a long, lazy afternoon, in the sun, our children happily playing together. We'll be heading off in different directions, me to the West, Paradise to the East, but for these few hours, the strings of our lives knot comfortably together, a fixed physical event that tethers the part of my life that is lived in cyberspace.

Look. There's me. I'm sitting on the floor with my mother, sorting a box of old toy cars. I'm taking a few, and we're dividing the rest between two bags, one for the charity shop, the other for the rubbish. I take my favourites, and then the ones I can see my mother is struggling to part with. How do you sift and prioritise memories? These Matchbox cars are the ones that I used to pick for my team, zooming them round the house with my brothers, wearing out the knees of our trousers. I know the feel of them in my hand. I know which doors open, and which wheels are missing. They all had names, but I can't remember those. My children come into the room. "Oh, the cars! Are you giving away these?" The cars are holders of two generations of playtime memories.

Look. There's me. I'm lighting the candles on my son's 16th birthday cake. We're telling him the story of the day he was born, how I sat in the sunshine with my mother and her friends. It feels like a strand of life has joined up into a full circle. I think of two friends who have sons with birthdays on this same date. One is in America whose son is 11, and the other a blogging friend whose son is 2. I reflect how my life has oozed out in various directions, from this place. Sixteen years. And here we are again. Only one more day in this house.

Look. There's me. I'm getting into bed beside Husband. I whisper "This is the last night we'll ever spend in this house", but he's asleep. I bury my face into the back of his warm neck and drape my arm over his body, and I think to myself that I'll never manage to get to sleep. But then it's morning.

Look. There's me. I'm doing the final sweep, and I'm bidding farewell to the house. I go into each room, and say goodbye, out loud. No hostages this time.

Look. There's me. We're in the car, and I'm crying, and I can't stop. I wave out of the window, because that's the ritual. "Do the beep-beeps" says one of the children from the back, and Husband beeps the horn twice. In the wing mirror, I can see my mother waving, and there's something deeply, deeply familiar about that exact way she's standing, the angle of her arm, the movement of it, the position of her head to one side... And the house, standing behind.

.

I haven't had a glass of wine and it's not late now

Mornin' all.

Thank you for your comments.

OK, here's the thing I'm really pissed off with, with myself.

I used to love blogging. I found I could write. And people liked reading it (either that, or it was a huge conspiracy, set up by Husband or my mum to make me feel nice).

Then blogging moved on, and I was a bit annoyed, but thought it was ok, really, because there was room in the blogosphere for everyone. Even if you just hung around in a small corner, then so long as it was a nice, fun, interesting place to be, that was fine. And my corner was. If it was a tea shop, I'd call it "The Cozy Corner Caff".

Then I thought I'd turn my blog into a book. I don't have a job. The children are out of the house all day at school. I would have time.

Then I found it impossible to get started, and I can't work out why. I bought a self-help book about procrastination. Which I haven't yet read, but will, soon, honestly.

Then I got busy with other stuff, like... oh you know, life stuff. It all seemed important and part of the process of settling myself and my family into our new place. And I kept telling myself to be patient, because I know that it takes ages and ages to settle into a new place, and while you're doing it, you're slightly tired all the time, and you don't have much internal space for anything.

Then I looked back on the almost-year that we've been here, and I felt like I've achieved nothing. I hate that feeling. It comes from time to time, and it's often a bit of a useful spur to action. But at the moment, it's just a bleurgh feeling, and not a spur, useful or otherwise.

I have tried to get a job, and I've been unsuccessful (but two interviews from the first foray, which isn't bad). And then I've been relieved I haven't got a job, because there's still so much else going on in family life. That sounds so darn pathetic, and I don't want you to think I'm the kind of mother who spends her life worrying about whether her son's cricket top is clean or not, because - in spite of the evidence of last night - I'm really not. Or only just a little.

I have looked into studying again, and well, it's still on the back burner, but I never seem to get off the front burner these days.

Then I read the BiBs short list, and I thought about all the bloggers who've used blogging as a springboard into writing a book, or getting a career started in social media, or becoming a writer of some kind or other, and I thought, that could be me, but... it isn't. I realised that actually, I do really want to write my book, and it made me all furious with myself that I just can't quite do it.

Yet.

.

It was a moment

I had a moment the other day.

I've stayed on a couple of email lists, and yes, I know, I know, we left America 11 months ago, so it probably is time to drop off them. But they don't generate much traffic, so they don't clog up my inbox, and it's kind of fun to keep an eye on them. One is the book club I belonged to, and I like to see what they are reading. The other is the study group I belonged to at church. Now, that was a special group in my life. You may remember reading about those people in this post.

I had a phone conversation with the friend who convenes that group out of the blue recently. It was fun to catch up - both the big things, and the little stuff. And then, just after, there was another email in my inbox. I hardly read them, these days, but the second paragraph caught my eye. 

"Also, on another note, for those of you who knew Husband and Iota, I got a call from her the other day and they are all doing well in Scotland. Husband likes his new job, the kids are doing well, and their house in America finally sold (Iota says thank you for the prayers and hello to all!)."

"For those of you who knew Husband and Iota..."  That was the moment. What? There are people in that group who don't know me? Seriously? You mean, it's not all just exactly as I left it? How can that be? People definitely aren't allowed to do that. My life there is in a box, and that box is absolutely not permitted to be shaken up.

It was a moment. 

I'm going to remove myself from those email lists. I'm in another church group over here now, and a couple of weeks ago, a friend and I decided to start a book club. We're reading The Great Gatsby... Life moves on.

It was just a moment. Those moments feel rather more like this, though.

Photo credits: IKEA, and Wikipedia

.

Leaving a home

On the way up to Edinburgh, we stayed overnight with my parents in law. It was the last time we will stay in that house. They are moving too. At the same time as we have headed east from America to Scotland, they are heading east from the Pennines to the Moors. A smaller journey geographically, but who can measure these things emotionally? They are leaving the house they moved to when Husband was 13, where they have lived for nearly 40 years.

It's never been my home, but as we drove away for the last time, going through the usual driving away ritual with a double beep on the horn and arms waving from the windows, I felt sad. That house holds 17 years of memories for me:

The first time I met my future parents in law, and we had a Chinese takeaway. It must have been an impromptu visit, I think, though I can't remember the details. If it had been arranged in advance, I'm sure they'd have cooked us dinner. Fish pie, probably.

The first week-end I stayed there, and the feedback via Husband from his mother: "She's a lovely girl, isn't she?"

Telling them we were going to get married, and hugs all round, though it had been difficult to find the right moment. We were bursting with the news, and every time we were about to start the announcement, Granny (though not Granny at the time) would get up to potter into the kitchen to see to the meal.

Those early visits with a baby and a boot full of baby equipment, nervously attending to his needs out of the comfort of our own environment. Later visits with three children, when dealing with just one baby would have seemed like a walk in the park. The cot, the highchair, the box of toys, bought for visiting grandchildren, to relieve our car boot of its burden, and to stand sentinel between our visits.

Being there for Grandad's 60th birthday, the day on which Princess Diana died.

The hatch between the kitchen and the dining room, which has entertained the children far more than any toy or game.

The trips to "the rec", the park, the canal to feed the ducks.

The traditional game of running round the house as many times as possible. The record is 150, held by 11-yo, (though we rely on self-counting, so I can't vouch for the accuracy of that figure).

The joke about how it always rains (and it usually does). There was one legendary trip when we drove up from the south in blazing sunshine, and when we were 10 minutes away from arriving, the sky clouded over and the drizzle started, as if to prove a point, or join in the joke.

Some of the memories have become stories for our children. "Granny kept saying "I must just see to the vegetables" and leaving the room, so you couldn't even tell them. Was that how it was?"

Then I think of the phone calls that have been received there. "A boy! Wonderful! How's Iota doing?" "Another boy! Is all well?" "A girl! Oh... a girl! How is everyone?" "You got the job... America... When will you leave..?" "Cancer? They're sure? What happens now?" So many moments that, like a child's dot-to-dot puzzle, join together to make a picture.

A house. It's so much more than a house. I'm homesick, and it wasn't even ever my home.
.

Betwixt and between

I am writing this blog post while on the phone to AT&T to see if I can cancel my cancellation of their services (stay with me), so that our house-sitters can continue to have internet access with them, rather than having to open a new account. This takes multi-tasking to a whole new level, but don't you just hate wasting all that time on hold to big corporations? I just put them on speakerphone, and have that irritating music playing on the desk while I type. And 11-yo has just shown me how you can reduce the volume on our phone, so I can hardly hear it. Who knew you could do that on our phone? Mind you, I guess most phones these days have that facility. I doubt we're at the forefront of domestic phone technology. You might find that hard to believe.

We all hate those phone calls where you go round and round, choosing options from a menu, conversing in monosyllables with an electronic voice. I've worked out that if you just pretend you're incompetent, and press digits that aren't in the menu presented to you, you get through to a real person more quickly. The other day I tried to do that verbally. When the cheery electronic voice asked me to say in a few words what I wanted help with, I just burbled down the phone at it. "Blurblurblur". It didn't work. The electronic voice said "I think you said you needed help with service availability. Is that correct?"

We had the packers in yesterday. If I have one tip for moving, it is this. Be ready for the packers. We had been told they would start the job on Friday and finish on Monday. But it was a crew of five people, motivated to finish as quickly as possible, and finish they did. Even though I've lived in America for five years, I think somewhere deep down I kind of expected them to find me at five o'clock on the dot, sniff, hand me an empty tea mug, and say "that's us done for the day... see you on Monday morning...". In fact, they stayed till 7.30pm, tidied up everything behind them, put their QuikTrip 32oz plastic cups in the trash, and left us in a house full of boxes.

So although I had kind of hoped that I might be doing bits of sorting and organising here and there while they were packing, it was just as well that Husband and I had got up at 4.30am to finish up as much as we could before the locusts descended. It's rather rude of me to call them locusts, because after all, they are providing a service for us, and they were polite and friendly. But it does feel a bit like that, when people are making all your possessions disappear into boxes, the treasured things and the daily items, undifferentiated. So it was good to get up early and be just a little ahead of the game. The bad thing about getting up at 4.30am, though, is that it catches up with you 24 hours later, and you are totally knackered. I am trying hard to look after myself during this whole stressful time, but I tell ya, it's not easy. I had arranged to have a massage yesterday evening, which was very nice. Actually, it was particularly nice because it meant I had to leave the locust house. I'd arranged it for 6.00pm (I really did think they were going to sniff and leave at 5.00pm on the dot, didn't I? I probably thought they'd be wearing brown work coats, have mustaches, whistle while they work, and be called Bill and Ted.)

Husband and I then dozed through a movie, in which Justin Timberlake lives in an imaginary world where no-one is older than 25 (a world, therefore, in which no-one falls asleep while watching movies).

Well, I am rambling, because I haven't had enough sleep, and because rambling is my default state. You know how if  you have a power cut, all the electrical items in your house flash "12.00" at you when the power comes back on. That's their default option. Well, mine is rambling. Writing this blog post is the equivalent of me flashing noon at you. Or midnight.

Oh, I do have one more tip about moving. Before the packers come, decide whether you are going to tip. (See what I did there?) Otherwise, you will find yourself on the front porch, texting a couple of friends: "Do u tip moving ppl? Wot is etiquette here? There r 5 of them. There will be 5 diffrnt ppl on Tues. Getting expnsv! They r professnl cmpny, not just 2 guys & a truck. Dsn't feel right to tip, but dsn't feel right not to." You will then find yourself trying to discuss the issue secretly with your spouse - not easy with 5 extra people in your house - on the basis of your friends' advice. One friend told me "Oh gosh, am hopeless on this knd v thing." The other said "Hsbnd says no, but I'm not so sure. Cld u giv them cupcakes?" I replied "No baking eqpmt left in kitchen". See what I mean? Who needs that kind of additional stress on packing day? Work out your tipping policy in advance, Peoples.

The British Are Going!

You see, I've been here long enough to know that that's quite a funny title for a party invitation. (No? The British are coming? Paul Revere? Where's your American history, people?) It wasn't really meant to be a farewell party, though of course everyone knew it was that. Husband's division at work is quite a social group, and I have often felt that we haven't taken our turn at hosting a party, so I thought we'd better get on and do it, otherwise I would leave with that feeling, and live forevermore with that feeling. So we had a tea party (of course), and I think some Jubilee fever must have rubbed off on me, because I put on the invitation that people should wear "red, white, blue, or a combination thereof, in recognition of the shared interests of our two nations". 

We had a lovely time. I'd gone to World Market in honour of the party, to buy Golden Syrup, with which to make flapjack, and had loaded up with some fun British biscuits for people to try. This is what the table looked like.

Let me just talk you through the picture. We're talking red, white and blue icing on the mini buns. Behind those, we have flapjack. Behind those are strawberries - how very accommodating of them to be red! No bananas or green apples on MY festive patriotic table! Continuing round the edge in an anti-clockwise direction, we have a plate of Jammie Dodgers and Hobnobs pretending to be Oreos (ie two mini Hobnobs stuck together with some kind of filling, abhorrent to the Hobnob purist, but I thought more interesting for the American palate), then a little heap of Penguins, a plate of Toffeepops and Viscount biscuits (oh dear, green foil wrappers out of place there, but I'd tolerate almost anything in a Viscount biscuit - my childhood favourites), a pile of cucumber sandwiches, and Chocolate Fingers.

I mean, could it get any more British than that? Oh yes it could. In the kitchen it did.

I was very impressed that many of the guests did drink tea, and didn't just opt for the cold drinks that we'd also provided. Most of them even tried it with milk. Most of them added sugar too. One or two made themselves sweetened iced tea (yuk).

It was very mellow. A couple of families who we've got to know well stayed on after everyone else left (I'd sent them sneaky texts beforehand saying "you will stay on when everyone else has gone, won't you?"). Then we had a power outtage, which was symbolic, somehow. Perhaps I'd just overloaded the local bit of the national grid with my intense use of the kettle. So as it got darker and hotter in the house, we moved a table and chairs outside, where it was a little bit lighter and cooler. Husband was despatched to get Chinese take-away, and we sat in the dusk, making that beautiful transition from tea to wine, and sharing the evening with the fireflies. I love fireflies. 

It's an odd time at the moment. Not much daily routine. All the time there is an overwhelming amount of things to do, but we're also having parties and meals with friends, and fitting in family special times. Everything feels more mellow, more vivid, more fun, more its essential nature, in these days. There is an intensity in finality. We haven't quite got down to last goodbyes yet. No. Let's be honest. We have. We just haven't admitted it. "I'm sure I'll see you again before we go" is my staple way of avoiding a farewell. Only just over two weeks to go now, though, so who am I kidding?

Best Buy, or not so Best Buy...

We have not sold our house. We have reduced the price, which has generated precisely zero extra interest. We will therefore have to discuss Plan B with our realtor, which involves leaving the house empty behind us, for her to sell, and for a management company to look after, all the while paying the mortgage and utilities. That feels like the biggest waste of money since (oops, was about to make bad taste joke about the Titanic, just stopped myself). We haven't worked out Plan B yet. That's this week's job. Not the most appealing prospect, I have to say.

There is one person who I really, really want to buy the house. That would be the person who says "From the picture, I anticipated that the kitchen might be out-dated, but when I saw that fabulous brand-new Samsung range, I was won over. That was the clincher for me."

You want to know why? Well, it's because that would make worthwhile the $500, and the hassle, and the waiting in for delivery, and the 45 minutes on the phone to the Best Buy Geek Squad, which led to the conclusion that we bought a new range, which we didn't need. What we needed to do was remember that our fuse box is geriatric and moody, and that if you don't carefully love and fondle each switch before clicking it back into place, and then carefully love and fondle it again after doing so, then it won't stay, but will click out again, quietly and secretly when your back is turned.

Looking on the bright side... I now know how a range behaves when it's pulling 110 volts instead of 220, because I've seen two of them - one old, one brand spanking new - perform the trick. (I thought electricity was either on or off; I didn't know it could be on-ish.) Who knows when that could come in useful? I also know that when a Best Buy delivery man turns on four hobs, waits 5 seconds, waves his hand over the top of them and declares "yup, working fine", what he really means is "it'll probably work fine, and I'm off now". Another piece of knowledge that I've acquired in the process is that if you use the word 'cooker', Americans don't immediately know what you're referring to, and may even think you have domestic staff.

I also know that the Best Buy customer service phone line plays the most noisy, irritating and aggressive music possible. Why would they do that? Why wouldn't they have chosen something soothing and calming? Greensleeves perhaps, or Eine Kleine Nachtmusik? Or something appropriately themed, selected according to the appliance that is causing the trouble? For me it could have been Pat-a-cake Pat-a-cake Baker's Man, or Sing a Song of Sixpence (four and twenty blackbirds - remember?), or Can she bake a cherry pie, Billy Boy, Billy Boy?, or You'll always find me in the Kitchen at Parties, or Hey Good Lookin', What ya got Cookin'? Blimey, SO many possibilities.

Anyway, back to the bright side, and  (and this really has been a bit of a bright side), I haven't had to cook for a week, which maybe, on mature reflection, was actually in itself worth $500 (not counting the cost of the Chinese bistro buffet at Dillons and the pizzas). I would break that down into $250 for the joy of not having to face the "What shall I do for dinner?" question every day, and $250 for the expression on two of my children's faces when I told them "Look on it as your golden opportunity to learn to love salad".

Come on, Universe.  I bought a new oven which I didn't need, which means that some Oven-Reconditioner somewhere at the very end of the Best Buy  chain of sub-contractors is happy, because he's got a perfectly-functioning oven when he expected an old wreck. The least you can do is send me a buyer for my house.

Holding it all together

Life can embrace extremes, and sometimes it's hard to hold those extremes together. If you put one in each hand, your left hand would drag your shoulder down towards the floor, and your right would shoot up above your head. 


I am thrilled by the act of taking a box of cast-off books to our local second hand bookshop, and receiving $9 for them. It feels like a good deal. I like the idea of them finding new homes, and helping the bookshop on its way. And $9 is better than nothing. Today we are going to talk to our realtor about dropping the price of our house. What will she suggest? $2,000? $5,000? More? So why did $9 feel so good? Why is my purse stuffed with coupons: 75 cents off a box of cereal?


I am enjoying seeing my everyday people and doing my everyday things. I also have a bucket list (hate that term, but it's convenient short-hand) of things I want to do and see locally. When I do those, I say "I can't believe we've been here five years and I've only just discovered this". The familiar and the unexplored. Both feel important, but they are competing for time. Not only time. Mental space, and emotional space too.


Blogging can be at the extremes too. I read the posts of people for whom life is pottering on, and the content is about school sports day, or chicken pox. I also read the posts of people for whom life is intense, and the content is about dealing with their child's serious long-term health, or a bereavement.


The universe must be reading as I write. I've just been interrupted by my daughter in her dressing gown. I thought we were going to have our usual conversation. 


"Can I go on the computer?" 
"No, I'm busy writing something."
"When can I go on the computer?"
"Ten minutes. Maybe twenty minutes. Go and play for twenty minutes and then you can." 
"I'm bored. I don't know what to do."


But today she cut to the chase.


"I feel sad."
"Why do you feel sad?"
"Because it's June."


So we had a hug, but now she's pottered off, and here I am, still "busy writing something" on the computer, but yes, it's June, and when June is over, we will no longer be here, which has been home for the past five and a half years.


That would be a good way to conclude this post, but wait, I haven't finished yet. Here's another pair of extremes. In my email inbox the other day, one above the other, were three emails asking for my attention, and for air time on my blog. One was telling me all about how I could join in some PR event to try out new strollers. I replied, pointing out that my youngest child is eight years old. That one served only to make me more receptive to the other two, which were personal, thoughtful, and worthwhile. So I offer you, one in each of my hands, the following:


Gemma Robinson, who has sniffed me out as a fellow tea enthusiast, and whose hand-made art prints I am happy to draw attention to. You can find them here. "Parsnips are the enemy" made me laugh (though I really love parsnips, so I'm not sure why).


And Syria. I was invited to write about the horrors that are happening in Syria, to raise awareness. Many other bloggers are doing so today. You can read their posts in the links here. I am shocked and horrified by what I've read. I want to care about Syria. I believe that (as Edmund Burke said, and Potty Mummy quoted)  'All that's necessary for the forces of evil to win in the world is for enough good men to do nothing.' But I can't feel and do very much for Syria at the moment.  I just can't.

Life at the extremes. Sometimes all you can do is hold out your hands.

Housework crisis: female vs male approach

It's a pain in the butt, keeping your house tidy and then whizzing round cleaning manically whenever a potential buyer wants to look round (can't they just browse and buy online like we do for everything else these days?) At least since Husband's term has ended, he's around and helps out. Women and men have a different approach to housework, don't they? Though there are some underlying similarities.

My stream of consciousness

Oh bother, this bottle of bathroom cleaner has run out. Never mind, there'll be quite a few others around the house in various cupboards. Husband always stocks up when he goes shopping… On the other hand, this could be a reason to go to Dillon’s and finish the cleaning later. There might be something on special offer and I could save some money. So it totally makes sense. Hm…Yes... That’s a good idea. I need a break anyway. I wonder if Anne-Marie would be free for a coffee in the Starbuck’s inside Dillon’s. That’s sensible - killing two birds with one stone. In fact, it would be silly to go to Dillon’s without seeing if she’s free. I’ll just call her… Dang it, she's not there. Left a message on her voice mail, so now I really have to go, because she might turn up and if I'm not there, that would be bad.

That’ll be one of the fun things about moving to Scotland. There’ll be some great coffee shops to discover in Edinburgh. I bet they’re really nice. There’s that one where J K Rowling wrote Harry Potter. Ooh, fun… All I need is a friend, or a book. Bookshops! Bet there are some nice bookshops in Edinburgh too. I wonder what people are reading these days in Scotland. Maggie O'Farrell - I love her. Has she written anything new recently I wonder? Or Alexander McCall Smith. Yes! Fabulous! What I really need is a bookshop with a coffee place inside it. Or just next door. Mmm… lots to explore.

Twenty minutes… I suppose I could just whip round with the vacuum, or do the kitchen. Not really worth it though. Can’t do much in twenty minutes. I know… I’ll just check my emails. That’s a really efficient use of time. Yay, me, for being so efficient. And I could just have a quick look at Amazon to see if there's a new Maggie O'Farrell. Or read one quick blog post. Wonder who's posted today.

Husband’s stream of consciousness

Oh bother, this bottle of bathroom cleaner has run out. I don’t think we have any more in the house anywhere. Funny that, because I always stock up on stuff like that when I go shopping. I suppose I could look, but actually, I think I’d better go to Home Depot instead. Yes. In fact, there are a few things I need from Home Depot, and I didn’t get them when I was there yesterday. Right. Home Depot it is. They have the best selection of cleaning fluids anyway. Much better than boring old Dillon’s.

Ooh, cleaning fluids! I wonder if any will be on special offer. I could really stock up. Oh, except we’re moving in 5 weeks’ time… But I’m sure we’ll use lots before then. Yes, I’ll stock up. Cleaning fluids… I wonder if they’re anywhere near the wood varnishes… or perhaps the high-powered solvents… paint-strippers… ant-killers… lawn fertilizers… mmm… so much to look at…

Home Depot… I’d better check out the tools while I’m there… Makes sense. Tools! Gadgets! Aisles full of them… Aaaah…

Home Depot… I wonder if HomeBase still exists in Britain. I can’t really imagine life in Britain without it. And B&Q! Oh yes! B&Q! Ooh, fun… Those super-size trolleys… I think I might still have my reward card in an old wallet somewhere. I wonder if my points are still valid. There are probably some really essential new pieces of DIY equipment in B&Q these days. I could have a look online. See what’s there. And if I see anything that would be really useful, I could check out if Home Depot has the equivalent. Cheaper to buy it here. Like that axe I got recently. Don’t know why Iota found that funny. Really useful thing to have. Our house has an open fire, and is right next to some woods. I’ll be using an axe. Definitely made sense. Wonder what else we need. Yes… Before I go, I’ll just have a look at the B&Q website and get an idea of prices.

.

Moving involves leaving. Who knew?

OK, so it's got to me.

Easter Sunday in church, the service ending with the singing of the Hallelujah Chorus, and me thinking that next Easter, I will be in a church which probably won't have that tradition.

Realising that I do like my house - now it's all tidy and clean!

Watching Michael Scott leave 'The Office'. Ah. That was the thing that got to me. Right under my skin. 'The Office' - the American version - has been a sort of backdrop to our time here. First, there was the transition from the English version to the American version, and finding that we preferred the American version (Husband can't bear Ricky Gervais). When we had cable, we often watched 'The Office' because we were bewildered by the obscenely huge choice of channels and didn't know what else to watch. Then when we gave up cable, we watched old episodes of 'The Office' because they're on all the time on the very limited number of channels we still get. And now we've worked out how to watch Netflix 'instant' instead of getting DVDs in the mail, we've gone back and filled in the gaps. It's the evening staple for me and Husband, when we're tired, and just want a glass of wine and 40 minutes of undemanding tv, to unwind before bed. And now, with tidy timing, we're finishing up the final season.

Michael Scott leaves. No. How can that be? How can he leave? How can we leave? I love the way 'The Office' shows how a random group of weird, annoying, flawed, yet wonderful, individuals, can become a community. If the story of our time here in the Midwest has been anything, it has been a story of finding community. And don't be insulted by the idea of being "weird, annoying, flawed", because we all are, you know. And I did say "yet wonderful", in case you hadn't spotted it.

So when I watched the bit where his colleagues sing Michael Scott the ballad, summing up the 9 million minutes he'd worked in the office, it got right under my skin and into my left ventricle and even my tear ducts. I confess I got a paper and pencil and worked out how many minutes we've lived here (over 2.5 million - if you don't count the summers away). It wasn't just me. 14-yo (who is wired emotionally so like me) was moved too. "I don't think Michael should have left. Why did they write that into the series?" he's asked me more than once.

And now I just can't get that tune out of my head. It's melancholy, but kind of inspiring and fulfilling too. I love how music can do that - be a mix of emotions all at once.

So Michael Scott, you moved to Colorado and a new life with Holly. We're moving to Britain. You will be an indelible part of my memories of my time here.

Here is that song. I defy you to watch the video and not be moved. Moved and moving. How apt. And the word 'emotion' comes from the same root. Yes, very apt.

So this is how I know I'm a writer and not an artist

Task: get big room in basement repainted, so that very dated (60s?) turquoise and sea green stripes on white with deep red trim (yes, honestly) can be hidden, and walls can become bland but fashionable beige.

Task: get front door painted, so that it doesn't look all bashed and (again) dated, but 'pops' (I have to put that in inverted commas - I can't take it seriously as a word. Not quite yet, anyway.)

Method: get friend round, to help me choose paint colours from huge colour chart left by painter (whom, when he told me how long the job would take, and with the knowledge of how long it was going to take the other painter who quoted for me, I described as 'speedy', then looked at his business card in my hand, and saw that his name was Gonzales. You're looking at me blankly. Speedy Gonzales? No? Never mind.)

You have to remember that I really don't care about the colour. I'm not going to be living with it. It just has to sell the house. My friend was a fine art major, and uses words like tone and shade, knowing what they actually mean. She can spend hours choosing between two identical shades of grey, talking of their relative coolness, whereas I mean something entirely different by 'relatively cool'. Nonetheless, she was just the right person for the job, though I feel I unkindly put her through several degrees of agony, by telling her that we had to decide within half an hour (we're being squeezed in between other jobs, so every minute counts). She picked me out a beige for the basement that won't make the grey speckly carpet look dirty (who knew?), and a deep dark purpley colour for the front door, which picks up the brickwork of the house as the realtor had suggested. It was either that, or the terracotta orange that I'd first thought of - terracotta, bricks, whatever - because I'm still so enchanted with my own Italian theme in the dining nook, and terracotta is a word that just springs to my lips before I can say Dulux. Actually, I never like using Dulux, because it sounds too like Durex and I'm afraid I might be in Homebase and say Durex instead of Dulux, and really embarrass myself. In any case, over here it's a question of Behr or Glisson, so the Dulux problem doesn't arise. Though Behr sounds like 'bare' and could therefore be embarrassing too. "Do you recommend painting Behr?" you might ask a Home Depot sales assistant.

Anyhoo... as we had reached our triumphant conclusion, I confessed to my arty friend that I find it hard to pick paint colours because I get distracted by the names. I'd much prefer it if they just gave those little squares numbers, and numbers only. For example, the original brick terracotta that I'd wondered about for the front door was called determined orange. I mean, how can you resist painting a front door determined orange? It has such command, such purpose. To me, it boiled down to a choice between that, and its neighbour robust orange. Would I rather have determined or robust as my message to potential buyers about the house? Meanwhile, the purpley jewel tone that my friend liked (jewel tone, get that?) was called burgundy, which just says dining room to me, and definitely not front door, so I took against that one from the outset.

It's not that I sit pondering these words. It's just that they're so full of instant connotations, all of them, that I have to make a mental effort to screen that out. I confessed to my friend that our downstairs bathroom is painted such a bright yellow because I loved the name bicycle yellow. We didn't delve into why the beige I'd first picked out for the basement (not dark enough, as she pointed out) was breathless.

Conclusion: Sand dollar for the basement, winning after a close battle with lightweight beige, which frankly was never going to come out well in a contest. Cordovan for the front door, after a tussle with river rouge. I don't know what cordovan means, but the moment my friend said she thought it was the name of a Spanish explorer, I fell for it. Exploration... front doors opening onto the world... new beginnings... It's totally perfect. And will make the front door 'pop' from the road, which is what my realtor said.

Meanwhile, we're touching up the stairwell with antique white, which grieves my sensibilities horribly, because dammit, we're trying to give the house an updated feel.

.

A staging post

Staging my house. Not dressing it. 'Staging' is the term I should have used, and staging is what I've been doing for the past couple of hours.

Our realtor came round last week, and pointed out where things could be improved. Some we knew about already, some she tactfully suggested. This morning, a couple of friends helped me out. They brought boxes of china and other display items, and they brought fun and a caring desire to help. The china is useful. We put it out on the silly built-in shelving in the sitting room that I've never liked. The fun and the caring desire to help was more than useful.

That's the essence of selling a house, isn't it? It's your home. But that's not what a buyer wants, and therefore that's not what you want to show them. If you came and looked round my house now, in the nicely-themed nook off the kitchen, you'd see a dining table, with a brown table cloth and a fruit bowl on top of it, a scene of a Tuscan landscape on the wall, all muted yellows and oranges, and a corner unit with plants and trailing ivy. I hope you'd think "mmm, what a lovely, welcoming, warm, mellow dining space".

But if you'd come and looked round my home last week, you'd have seen a not-at-all-themed space that I don't think you'd ever have described as a 'nook'. The wall was covered with pictures painted or drawn by my children over the past five years, stuck up with blu-tack. We called it 'the art wall'. Whenever a picture came home from school, if we decided we liked it more than any of the existing ones, an old one was taken down and the new one went up in its space. Some old favourites had been up for years, dusty but undeposed. You'd have seen a bare table, all scraggy with paint, glitter and nail polish - the table that we decided we'd let the kids use for whatever they wanted when they were little, and then we'd sand down and revarnish at some unspecified future time. When do you decide that your children are no longer little? We haven't quite got there yet. 8-yo still paints and glues and snips and jabs at that table, and I still prefer not to have to choose between the table's appearance and the child's creative largesse.

Where the classy corner unit now stands (well, not all that classy actually), you'd have seen a couple of cardboard boxes, labelled '8-yo's second grade work', and '11-yo's fifth grade work'. What else is a mum to do with the generous contents of the Friday folders, week by week?

You'd have seen a big pile of stuff. Stuff? Yes, stuff. I can't find a better word. Next to the stuff, you'd have seen 'the craft chest of drawers' - a truly horrible plastic item, bought from Walmart when we first arrived in the US, desperate for a place to keep under control all the paperwork that was coming at us thick and fast, and now the repository of crayons, pencils, paintbrushes, paints, stamps, inkpads, rubber bands, blu-tack, scotch tape, bows cut off gift bags that might come in useful, scraps of fabric that also might come in useful... you know the kind of thing. I'm missing that horrible, grubby, shabby plastic chest of drawers already.

This is where having friends is so good.

"Oh!" they said. "Your art wall!" they said. "I loved that wall... but yes, I guess you did have to take it down. Wow. I love your Italian theme. That picture is gorgeous. Where did you get that border from? Really? You've always had that border up in your kitchen? How did I never notice the border? It was up when you moved in? And that matching curtain over the top of the window? Really? I guess I was always so busy admiring the art wall that I never noticed. It's great, though... the Italian look... picking up that border. You've done wonders."

House to home was a slow process, and lonely in the early days. Home to house is a quick transformation. It feels almost surgical, removing the bits that don't fit, that aren't needed, that will get in the way, and stitching up with borrowed china and silk flower arrangements. But of course you fool yourself if you think it really is surgical. A home can't be dissected like that. That's why you need surgeons who are friends. They operate with efficiency (they know you're busy) but also with laughter. They choose their words carefully ("A potential buyer might prefer to see an open space here - though I absolutely love the way you have it..."). And most important of all, they know about the art wall.

Moving on

We are moving back to Britain.

I don't know what else to say on my blog. I have learnt that anything you say, any information you share, you can't take back. I can't ever be properly anonymous again, but I can continue to be semi-anonymous, and I want to guard that. So I don't want to give out details of names and places. But I want to tell my news, dear Bloggy Friends. What to do?

I think what I'll do is tell you a little, and then if you want to know details, you can email me. The address is IotaManhattan, then the rest hosted by gmail. I'm happy to share information, dear Bloggy Friends. I just don't want to do it here. Please do feel free to contact me.

Suffice to say, there's a clue in the labels for this post. Husband has got a job as a school chaplain. It's a great option for the whole family. The kids will have places at the school, which is mostly boarding, but they will be day kids. We will live on site. So as far as the move goes, the two big challenges (finding a house, finding schools) are already in the bag. In the sporran.

It's one of those beautiful moments in life when everything seems to be falling into place around our ears. I haven't shared much about the search for a route back to the UK, but it has been lengthy and demoralising. Sometimes agonising. When we came to the US for a stint, we didn't plan for the credit crunch and what that would do to the job market. There have been times here when we have felt stuck, and panicky. The clock has been ticking in the background. We absolutely HAD to be back before our oldest was 12. He needed to start secondary school in the UK along with peers. That sacred cow fell by the wayside a couple of years ago. Then we had to be back before he was 14 and would start the GCSE curriculum. Bam! Another sacred cow keels over. I can picture it toppling sideways in slow motion, legs giving way and extending to a skywards-pointing position, as the bovine body hits the ground and rotates, sacred udder bouncing and wobbling. The field of our recent life is strewn with several of these supine creatures.

I have had to learn to go with the flow, to trust that life will work out, when we can't work it out ourselves. And now we have an option that is better than all the others. It was waiting for us, but of course we couldn't see it, hiding away round a corner in the future. Meanwhile, we've been determined not to live in limbo, and so we've never allowed ourselves to say "it's not worth it, we might be moving". It's a series of acts of will, but important for expats, I think. So I painted our bedroom even as Husband was in the UK having a job interview about this time last year, and I chose a colour that I liked, not a colour that would be sensible for preparing the house for market. We bought a table tennis table for Christmas, in the knowledge that we would never have a house big enough in the UK for it, and therefore probably wouldn't get our proper money's worth out of it. I started an MA, which I will now leave unfinished. When you're an expat, you have to live in the present, not for a hypothetical future. You really do.

I'm needing a clinching razor-sharp one-liner at this point, to close the post, but waah, I also have to make three packed lunches, get showered, put on some clothes, kill the haggis for dinner, and be out of the house in the next, oh, 4.2 minutes. Talking of living in the present.

I'm so happy.

.

Thanksgiving: yes, I'm still on about it

OK. Time to reveal what is behind all this ‘shadow cast over the sunshine that was Thanksgiving’ blurb.

We don't have a return ticket. It must be nice to be sent abroad by a company, for a fixed period of time, 2 or 3 years say, safe in the knowledge that they'll bring you home again to the corporate fold. But we're free-lancers. We sold our house and bought one here. We don't have jobs to go back to. We don't have an obvious community to go back to. In sum, we don't have a life to go back to. Just lots of loose strands. Lovely, important, crucial, life-enhancing loose strands, but all the same, they're not a firm enough rope to pull us back. Not a job and an income, is what it boils down to.

What do you do, as free-lancers, if you've been looking hard for a year for opportunities to return to the UK, have found none, and then out of the blue, get an offer, which is great in pretty much every detail, except for the location. Wrong side of the Atlantic. It'll involve moving job, city, state, home, schools, leaving friends, undoing all that hard work we've put into settling here, and still not get us back to Britain. It would be a good stepping stone (both career-wise, and geographically), but dang it, I didn’t ask Santa for a stepping stone.

I’m sure there were moments, as a child, when I screwed up my eyes and wailed “I want to go home now. Can’t we just go home?”. Forty years on, and deep down that’s what I’m doing today. I could write out the pros and cons of this new opportunity. The pros would be a great long list, and the cons would be “Iota wants to go home*, and can’t face moving unless it’s to achieve that”. Does that count for anything?

And that is why, dear Bloggy Friends, writing about the Expat’s Paradox is so scary at the moment. Moving within the US now, with the kids at the ages they are (oldest will be 13 by next summer, which is when the move would happen), feels like we are making the decision to stay for the duration. I know it’s not, or it doesn’t have to be, but it feels like it is. And I really don’t want to. I really don’t. Had you spotted that already? I really don’t.

Which is why I felt almost resentful, as well as happy and grateful, when we had such a nice Thanksgiving. As I said to a friend here, I was excited to move to America, and embraced it as an adventure. But I didn't really mean it.


* and remember, I haven't let myself use that word to refer to Britain for three years now, but have religiously attached it to my current abode. But this morning I'm allowing myself to peel it off and reposition it.

Bloggers are getting younger these days

Soon after I started this blog, and flushed with the excitement of writing, I began to wonder if I could write a book about moving to America. In fact, I gave up the blog (or tried to) for a while, with that in mind. I have to confess I didn’t get very far (and I missed the blog too much to leave it). Let’s be honest, I didn’t actually start. I did talk about it though, and 11-yo liked the idea. He offered to co-write the book with me, and that gave me another idea. Perhaps we could produce a book about the move, written from both perspectives. The mature, wise, reflective story of the adult, interspersed by the fresh, immediate, youthful comments of the child. I thought a publisher might like that.

There’s just one glitch. I’ve not written any of my sections. 11-yo has rather put me to shame. He's written 5,500 words, although he's only got as far as the point at which we arrive in our new city and are met at the airport. We both have some way to go.

I can’t tell you how interesting it has been for me to read his account of events, and to get insights into what it was like for him to be a player in them. I thought you would like to read his work too, so here are the first 500 words or so. I removed real names, and made one factual interjection, but otherwise it is completely unedited. I hope you enjoy the read.

Our family moved overseas from Scotland to America, and I am here to tell you about it.

It all started when I was in primary 4. I got home from school, did the usual things I would do on a Friday afternoon after school, and mum and dad called 5-yo and 2-yo and me into the dining room. 2-yo and 5-yo are my brother and sister. Mum and dad sat us all round our circular table, and told us that we were going to move from our house in Scotland near the sea, all the way over to America, almost as far away from the sea as you can possibly get. It was shocking news at the time to all of us, but also, it was exciting as you could imagine. 5-yo and 2-yo then started asking question after question to mum and dad, some of them unanswerable, but some of them where good questions. They were questions like, “How big is the city?” Or “When are we going?” Those types of questions. So, we had a little chat, and then went back to doing Friday afternoon things, and mum went off to make dinner.

The weekend after we heard the news passed very slowly, because I was very excited about telling everyone about us moving across seas. Of course, at the time, it seemed like a very long time till it actuarially moved, which at the time, was true. It was at least a year and a quarter, if not longer. [It was 6 months. Ed.] So, the weekend slowly went by, doing weekend jobs, watching a bit of TV, and shopping for food, and weekend jobs. Finally, it got to Sunday though, and in the morning we went to church. The Sunday afternoon went by slower that Saturday though.

Finally, after the whole weekend, a whole 48 hours, Monday came. I had never been so excited to go to school in my whole life, and when I got there, it was the same as always, busy, people everywhere, people playing, people lining up to go inside, and so on. We went inside after the bell rang, and we hung up our bags and our coats, bought in our homework and books, and got ready to begin working, but as always, people where standing up and turning in homework, and telling the primary 4 teacher things they want her to know, or telling her things she needs to know, maybe something about homework. That was the chance I had to tell her the news, and then that would be when the news got out. I also told some of my friends beforehand. When the teacher heard, she was shocked, but also happy for me, and she asked me why we were moving, which was a good question, and I answered, “Because my dad has got a job in America, he is teaching at a university.” This was true, and I am not the kind of person who lies, especially in this situation. Anyway, my best friend was quite shocked as well, in fact probably more shocked than anybody else in the classroom except for me, but of course I already knew the news, I found out two days ago, so I probably wasn’t the most shocked after all.

Sweet Land

Whenever I've felt that moving abroad is tough and lonely and all those other self-pitying things that we expat wives notch up on our imaginary totem of hard-done-byness, I've always managed to find some comfort in comparing my lot to those of women in bygone ages. I always hated history at school, and wrote it off as boring and pointless. I now increasingly see the huge value of learning about the past, about past lives. Boy, does it make you thankful to be a 21st century woman.

The pioneers, those women who sat in covered wagons with their children, bumping along day after day after day, full of uncertainty, fear, loneliness, illness. No email, no telephone, no blogging, no antibiotics, no heating, no air conditioning. How pathetic they would think we modern day women are! "I don't understand the school grading system. I can't get decent sausages. The bacon is really fatty. Air travel is so expensive." I hang my head in shame.

Last night, I watched a movie "Sweet Land" - look it up on Netflix. It's set in the 1920s, when Inge arrives in Minnesota to marry a farmer she has never met. Because of her German background, she is unable to get the necessary papers to allow her to immigrate or marry. The local minister preaches against her from the pulpit ("her coffee is too black"), and life is bleak. It is a beautiful movie, which I thoroughly recommend if you're not in a hurry (emotionally, I mean, at 110 minutes the film itself isn't unusually long). Slow-moving (oh how those days must have dragged for her), with lingering shots of the land, the houses, the faces of the characters, it's full of the detail of life at the time, domestic, social and agricultural.

I loved Inge. Beautiful, composed, dignified, standing up for herself as best she can, treasuring her few possessions, a gramophone player and a smart hat. She arrives in a strange and hostile land, speaking only a few words of English, but has been sensible enough to include in her handful of learned phrases "I could eat a horse". That speaks to me of a woman who, facing her life's biggest adventure and biggest hardship, shrewdly and wisely decided where her priorities lay.

More thought on time

It is amazing that my children have any grasp of time at all. "We're leaving in TWO MINUTES" I say. Then I get chatting to a friend, and ten minutes later I repeat "I said we were leaving in TWO MINUTES. Come on, hurry up, get your stuff. Now. Quick. We're going to be late." Then I remember one more thing I had to tell my friend, and five minutes later I repeat "Now. We're going. Quick. I said TWO MINUTES."

Maybe my mother was the same. Maybe that's why I have a struggle with the whole concept of time. If my children ask me any of those cosmic-related questions like why we have summer and winter, my reply is "that's because the earth spins on its axis, no, hang on, wait a minute, no, it's because the earth goes round the sun, and, um, the sun is hotter on one side than the other, no no, that's not right, um, oh yes, I remember, it's because the earth is tilted and doesn't face true north, so it gets colder when it's round the back of the sun because England and America get tilted away, and yes, that's why the moon is sometimes up in the daytime too because we see it for longer when we're tilted." Poor kids. They don't have a chance.

I know 7-yo ponders these things. He once said to me "It's not fair for kids. When you're a kid, when something is boring, time seems to slow down and it lasts for ages. Then when you're having a good time, like at recess, time seems to speed up and it goes by so fast." I hated to disillusion him, but felt I had to. "You know what? When you're an adult, it's exactly the same thing. You've got more used to it, but it's the same thing." He took the news in his inimitable child stride.

Living in America makes it more complicated for them than it was for me as a child (which was already complicated enough, let me tell you). They know that when we Skype grandparents, it's our morning but their afternoon. How complicated is that? They understand very easily now, but I remember struggling to explain it before we came. Before we flew out, nearly two years ago now, we carefully explained to them that it was going to be a long and exhausting journey. Not only was it a long, long way and we'd have to be in the plane for a long, long time, but also, there was this thing called the time difference. This meant that the day would be an extra long day, because it would be like it had six extra hours in it. We'd arrive in the evening, but it would be for us as if it was the middle of the night. We'd be tired, very tired, was the message I was trying to get across. 7-yo took a different message though. He told a friend of mine "Do you know, in America it's great, because their days are six hours longer than ours."

I repeat, I would love to be inside my child's head for a day.
.