It’s late August and I’ve barely finished the six loads of laundry from our Barcelona holiday when I fall down a wormhole of work. When I emerge again, it’s winter and we’re only weeks from our London departure date. Continue reading “Over and out”
Stability. Settledness. A mostly predictable order to things.
It lasts about four days.
It’s the first week of my new nannied-up routine and I’m just relaxing into the roomy new shape of my week when the email arrives from the letting agent. The landlords won’t be renewing our lease in June. Continue reading “Unfortunately, fortunately”
Always a boy who needs to feel part of the tribe, Number Two Son tends his accent with the same care he gives his footballer’s quiff in the morning mirror. He works to eliminate his Kiwi short ‘e’, that giveaway vowel, as mockable as the Australian short ‘i’.
‘Axcellint,’ he says to himself. ‘Avrything. Agg.’ Continue reading “Lippy kids”
This is where the emigrating shit gets real: when you pack your kids off to a strange school in a strange country, where along with the unfamiliar faces so much else is foreign too: the accents, the vocabulary, the routines, the things that everyone else seems to know by osmosis but no one quite explains. Continue reading “The rubber hits the road”
The beginning of the holidays, instead of smoking the kids out of the neighbouring houses, seems to make them vanish altogether. Where have they all gone, we wonder – off to the seaside, perhaps, or Spain, or to visit their grandparents in Lincolnshire, or to school holiday programmes or whatever working Londoners do with their kids over the summer. Continue reading “Funny bone”
Normal summer transmission resumes and London goes back to being grey and warmish and intermittently drizzly. We settle into a routine: Hapless heading off for the daily commute, the rest of us tackling ‘summer school’ – a little daily homeschooling and light masochism. Continue reading “Ball games”