Arrival...England

Arriving in London we were greeted with a sign bearing our surname.

 If we’d had the presence of mind we should have got them to hold up ‘Foreign Idiots’, because that’s how I would feel, blundering about the business of trying to connect with a new place over the ensuing week.

But, back at this point in time I was sitting jet lagged in a taxi staring at the passing pony dotted allotments and quaint housing, with a ridiculous grin on my face. We had made it! If we died in a horrible crash right now, I would still be chuffed that we’d got here. Well, maybe not.

 London traffic was suffering from Olympic asphyxiation, hence we got the slow scenic taxi route to my brother and sister-in-laws in North London.

After a lovely reunion, our 3 year old nephew , Oscar, gave us a tour of his local

park, pointing things out from his little wooden scooter in a cute English accent. Funny that my Aussie brother and his Kiwi partner should produce two very English children. My brother is just as mystified by this, but at least confident they are in fact his children, which is all you can ask for really.

Queens Park is an emerald oasis surrounded by streets of terraces from the reign of lets say, Queen Eudora, as I am not sure how old they are, but they aren’t new. So, Eudorian terraces with checkerboard tiled paths, brightly painted doors and roses and honey-suckle spewing politely over little garden walls. Probably enough Dom Perignon in kitchens to create a really lovely carbonated moat around the park.

The park itself is impressive and had so many things- (petting corner, sandpit the size of Tatooine, formal garden [‘NO DOGS OR ANNOYING PEOPLE PLEASE”], playgrounds etc). There was a lot to take in but pouring rain streamlined our priorities and we could only take in a really awful coffee with a placatingly good brekky at the café, staring in wonder at the baskets of begonias the size of your head and the cute blood wars between bird and squirrel for scraps.

A day and a half in London was all we had (used for such boring tasks as bank set-up, phone plans, admiring dogs in prams) before we were whimpering with fright, following my sister in law and children out of London, in our rental car. Sure, they drive here on the same side of the road as us, but only if there aren’t cars parked along  your lane or if there is more than one lane. Perhaps there should be different classes of License to be allowed to drive in other countries. You could get say a Beige card for Sydney (behaved but really up tight), a Blue card for London (just make it down this road with your side mirrors on), progress to say a Green card for Italy (‘STOP’ is just a suggestion) and end up with say a Gold for somewhere like China (Keep your hand depressed on the horn and feel free to drive through red lights or into buildings). But no, we just had to upgrade on the run. At least the run had pretty trees and grass on the roadsides- like having a heart attack while gazing at a Monet.

We did eventually reach the New Forest in Hampshire where our trauma was eased in a very fine Pub called The White Rabbit. It was all nooks and beams to the wahzoo (which really floats my boat), so I had to try a local cider and really pop the icing on it. I was a bit confused by the flatness and warmness of my beverage, named Rosie’s Scrumpy. It was okay, as far as tepid watery apply juice goes,  but only a fifth cousin of what I was expecting so I can only give it a 5 and hope the bartender was not under the bar peeing himself stupid at what the ignorant tourists will swallow. The platter I shared was however very fine- a sort of English tourist in Majorca- pasties and pickles and cheese with hommous and olives and tomatoes. On the walls of the pub were photos and pictures of times gone by in the local area, including a shot of the famous local snake catcher who rid the forest of these nasty beasties by the tens of thousands. I couldn’t help thinking’ “They’re not real snakes! If ya wanna see a REAL snake mate, come to Australia.”

But I guess he chose life and more attainable fame.

The New Forest in no particular order contains Robin- Hood worthy forests, heath land, Anglo-porn cottages, deer, ponies and my grandmother,  which makes her sound like a fairy book character. But it is a bit of a fairy story that I get to see her as she isn’t at all well and the farewell we took five years ago, I’m sure she thought was final. I love people being proved wrong, as long as it’s not myself, so it was doubly great to see her. Na, na, we’re back!

Visits being short as they were and needing to burn off some Full English fat, we headed off like excited labradoodles to see Winchester and begin that tiny detail of finding a job, home and schools.

Seeing signs for Winchester coming up was very exciting. For me. The kids did look up for a nano-second from their electrical devices, but Fil was simply focused on not Liverpool kissing the oncoming traffic.

 Winchester, that place we’ll call home. Winchester, that place that we love. Winchester, that place that we’ve never even bloody been to before-

 HERE WE COME!!!

Leaving Home

As the removalist wandered around our home, mentally packing his truck , I apologised profusely for not quite being ready. I was still running around madly finding more 'stuff' and trying to find something to shove it in. " Please make me feel better and tell me there have been people less prepared than us!"
"Don't worry love, we've woken some people up and they've packed nothing." (Jesus!) This did make me feel better but not much as it was basically comparing ourselves to complete idiots. Or perhaps just really, really relaxed people(?) The removalist added kindly- "We all just collect so much stuff." "Yeah." I agreed.
"You can always have a garage sale."
"Uh, we've had one."
"Well, theres always charity- you can always find a few things you dodn't need."
"We've done that already.."
The removalist decided his one moment in life to be helpful was well and truly over and hurried off to do his job. As he ought. Ahem.
The next day was just me cleaning and ramming last things into our car. The day was a spectacular arc of not caring, then caring a great deal to once again not caring as time ran out and the importance of wiping dust off something that is no longer yours seemed irrelevent.
Unfortunately the new owners truck arrived 40 minutes before I was due to be out and though they assured me they weren't in a rush- being paid by the hour- I felt as though they and the new owners were all out on the front lawn with stop watches and angry glares. At two minutes to the appointed- 'get the hell out of my new home' hour, I realised I would not get everything into my car and ran up to the waiting truck, waving frantically. The burley men looked down at me, no doubt I interrupted their I Spy game- "Whats up love?"
"Uh, I just have a few things won't fit in my car. I'm just going to drive five doors up and put them at my neighbours- and then I'll be back for the rest." Bloody hell, I would have qualified for the olympics- shove heavy boxes in car- drive up road and one by one sprint up and down a 45 degree driveway until you have a really clear picture of how very unfit you really are. People, I drove out of my driveway for the last time at two minutes after the hour. Thankyou for the applause. I waved madly at the removalsists as they left and they looked at me like the idiot I appeared to be, but I didn't care- it was done!!!
It had been a trying two weeks- packing and tidying, giving away beloved pets (who bloody appear happier at their new homes- so fickle the furred!)- all whilst still working. I had a lovely work farewell- the first time people have appeared sad to see me leave a job- and we all got a lot of hugs from people which was nice for me and alarming for the boys.
We have had so many meals out with people that I wanted to puke but we soldiered on somehow.
The host for the 10 days between our house selling and us choofing off was my mother. I don't know for whom the days seemed longest- buts lets just say that living in a new country will be comparatively easy and that living without us with be very pleasant and peaceful!
Those ten days were spent more or less contacting every bloody institution we have anything to do with and changing details or cancelling them, sorting out banks- one for here and one for there (more wildly varying lots of information causing us great grief), selling cars- what a crappy job that is, having a child with a bad flu whom everyone tell you helpfully will probably not be allowed on a plane, taking more and more stuff to the storage place where our gear is in hiatus, changing money, living with a stroppy teenager who just wants to see his friends and pretty much do nothing else.
And yet, and yet...here I am the morning of our departure, tapping away instead of packing up the last of our gear and getting my blood pressure up to the proper leaving my old life behind sort of level.
At least the kids are finally jumping around in excitement and looking back I can really see how very far we have come to get to this point. It's been a very bumpy road, but the destination is just a plane trip away and I have to say, I'm really bloody proud of ourselves to have got here.
The hobbits are going to Isengard!