Resolution

Every new year begins the same – the promise of positive thinking. A whole list of new year’s resolutions that are obsolete by the end of January. This year – no resolutions.

Last year I was on a high of positivity – our last Christmas in California; I was looking forward to that downward spiral knowing I was coming home. Of course when it was time to come home, I was incredibly sad, all that glorious Californian sunshine and that easy convenient lifestyle, gone.

Fitting back in is hard – much harder than I thought - especially now as I am on my own.  Yes I have days when I relish my freedom, but there are other days – especially weekends, when I feel like a complete social pariah – weekends are family times, my friends are busy with their own husbands and their own kids.  Friday and Saturday evenings are the worse and I find myself willing the weekend away – Monday comes a relief. Back to normal again, a routine.

Of course having our Xmas plans scuppered at the last minute didn’t help. A week in that Saudi sunshine loomed but was thwarted by the ‘mañana’ effect –  despite assurances our paperwork was being processed, the 'official’ invitation did not arrive. No invitation, no visa;  no visa, no flight.  “It will be with you shortly” translated into not on your nelly.  Perhaps in time for a trip at Easter, the husband suggested hopefully. Forget it, I know where I’m not wanted.

So feeling a bit like Cinderella we set off for a couple of nights at a local hotel with spa facilities where the teenager, daughter No 1 and I indulged in some mother-and-daughter bonding over copious amounts of Prosecco and a mushroom risotto for Christmas dinner.  Long walks in a very wet New Forest, a howling gale and flooded roads only made me miss that Californian sunshine even more.

Last Christmas we spent the day on the beach in Santa Monica. This year the beach at Highcliffe wasn’t even visible through the murk and the mist  from the cafe 50ft up at the top of the cliff.

To get out of the Boxing Day rain we browsed the shelves of the W H Smith sale, where a small booklet entitled 365 Positive Thoughts – one for every day of the year – caught my eye.  This was what I needed, a little something to look at every morning, to spur me into action.  Alas, as I perused the pages I realised this book was not for me, one of the quotes instructed the reader to try again at whatever they had failed at the day previously.  Sometimes you just have to re-group and move on; I can’t think of a less positive thought than failing miserably at something two days on the trot.

Creativity is born from the pit of despair.  All those great writers with their miserable lives – Emily Bronte trapped in her isolated parsonage riddled with ill health; lonely vicar’s daughter Jane Austen, and all those anguished great poets; would they have been able to write such works of arts if their lives had been filled with endless sunshine, riveting company, and a dizzy social life? Highly unlikely.

So this year no  promises of self-improvement, trips to the gym, inspired cooking or lowering my alcohol intake. Just one aim and one ambition. Get published – or at the very least – keep my blog up to date!

Happy Christmas

A frustrating, stressy week

Christmas plans changed

Workmen in the house

Creativity at all time low

On with the Xmas shopping

Start the Xmas wrapping

And count my blessings

Hopefully back on track with the blogging in the New Year

Brrr.....

When I started this new blog the aim was report on how we were settling in after three years of living abroad; how we were acclimatising and adjusting to life back in the UK

As the first freezing sleet of the year begins to fall I can tell you now that far from settling in, hibernation has never seemed such an attractive prospect.

Brrr it’s cold.  After three years of Californian winters I’m not prepared for this.  I don’t even own that UK bare essential – an ice scraper for the car. I am actually one of those rare people who overnight their car in the safe confines of a garage,  but heading out for the evening last night I realised the car may well  freeze up in the two hours or so it was going to be left outside.  Could I find an ice scraper? No, all I uncovered in the depths of the garage was the culmination of our seasonal motoring needs in the US  - two sun shields for those hot sunny afternoons in the parking lot. Fat lot of good they are going to serve us here.

My wardrobe is totally inadequate.  I have had to purchase several jumpers, warm socks, and a new winter coat. I’m already on my third umbrella. Our heating bill for this quarter – and I’m sure January and February are only going to be worse – is enormous.  In Pasadena I only remember putting the fire on about twice in three years.

At first the thought of being cold was a novelty; the chance to wear some different clothes. I quite liked the idea of wearing long sleeves, and my discount boots purchased in those designer mega-stores, well they were hardly worn.  Now I rarely take them off.

I scuttle from the car to the house and then back out again, not a mere ounce of flesh on show. I’d forgotten what frost looked like, I’d forgotten those biting winds, the sunsets at four o’clock.

But of course it’s not all doom and gloom in the UK,  because Kate Middleton is finally pregnant! You can almost hear the sighs of relief all round.  The American tabloid press had Kate pregnant with twins since her wedding night – if not before.  Every time I stood in line at Ralphs supermarket the gossip mags by the check-out lead with headline stories about Kate’s ‘secret’ pregnancy.

The Americans love our royals – I was constantly quizzed about the Queen, Helen Mirren, Prince Charles and  Harry and Wills as if I knew them personally.  If we British ever decide to declare a republic and get rid of our royals, there will always be a home for them in America - apart from Camilla, of course. At least that's one suggestion that probably wont be cropping up on the list of  prospective baby-names....

The Week That Was

One of the hardest things about blogging is trying to find something exciting to write about in a rather dull week. It’s the art of making the ordinary seem extra-ordinary.

A relatively quiet uneventful week really, the highlight of which was teenager’s first UK school report in three years.  When we left the UK back in 2009 we were warned by teachers at her local comprehensive that we would be doing our daughter’s educational prospects irrecoverable harm by moving to the US.  Fortunately this does not appear to be the case – her school report was positively glowing and she has coped with the transition from her small US high school to mega college style sixth form very well , with a work ethic and academic standard that appears to exceed many of her comprehensive school contemporaries.  I’m not saying the US system was perfect, far from it, but in our particular case I can’t help but think far from being detrimental to the teenager’s education it will prove a positive asset. (This may well say a lot more about her previous comprehensive school than the marvels of a private catholic high school education.)

A second highlight was another pub quiz team win, a nail biting evening with victory clinched by a single point.  Low lights included the dismal weather, a rather poor attempt at Christmas shopping, a trip to the dentist to have my very expensive US crown admired and prodded and eventually filed down, and an overheating cooker – which quite naturally failed to perform the same trick for the domestic appliance engineer when he came to examine it. 

The Christmas shopping is now on hold; a present ordered on line to save a trip to the shops arrived in pieces and had to be returned – to the shop, defeating the whole object. The cat has been cooped up in the house because of the weather and has perfected the art of jumping all over the furniture and chasing scrunched up pieces of paper  around the house – my rather desperate attempts at keeping him occupied. Almost barricaded into the house by a wall of leaves outside the front door I finally lured the cat out in a rare moment of watery sunshine and we did a bit of gardening.

All in all  a rather depressing week, which ended on another low - an over-indulgent Friday night trip to the pub resulting in a very groggy subdued weekend. Another Saturday night eating cheese on toast, drinking a cup of tea, and watching the X-Factor – how to make that sound interesting?

An evening spent with a delicious plateful of heart warming welsh rarebit,  accompanied by sips of refreshingly leafy Earl Grey, whilst watching a pointless exploitive exercise in media manipulation.  

At the least the creative writing course is coming on well.

Belgium Day II

Our second day in Bruges dawned clear and sunny. Wrapping up against the cold we headed out for a canal cruise. Tourism is the mainstay of Bruges’s economy; it’s an attractive city, full of historical squares surrounded by shops selling Belgian lace, chocolates, waffles and beer. It’s a positive calorie fest with an overriding sense of dental decay.

After our canal cruise, we headed for the town’s one remaining brewery for a guided tour, and a free glass of beer.  Following the beer, and a long walk around the town, admiring the architecture and a spot of shopping, we headed back to our hotel to take advantage of its wellness centre. Hidden in the vaults was a spa with a small steam room and sauna, the opportunity to relax and take the weight off our feet.

Did I fancy a steam? Yes of course but not with the naked elderly European man who, despite wearing his swimming trunks into the relaxation room promptly took them off. Why? Nobody else did. We retreated instead to the Sauna, to be joined by a costume clad German couple nursing their baby monitor. We relaxed to the contented gurgling of the baby.

We noticed the young couple the next day at breakfast, still nursing their baby monitor as opposed to the baby. Fortunately there was no embarrassing encounter with the naked steamer, although of course, would we have recognised him anyway with his clothes on?

Remaining slightly paranoid about our lack of flourescent clothing, I insisted we keep to small side roads as we headed for the coastal town of Blankenberg, one of Belgium’s premier sea side resorts.  Wrapped up against the biting cold of the foggy North Sea we took a stroll along the pier, where with a grimace and a squint, it was just possible to imagine ourselves back in Santa Monica on a bad marine layer day.  On our return we found ourselves facing an entire photography class capturing the grey mood through a telescopic lens – I wouldn’t be at all surprised if we don’t end up in someone’s portfolio in an arty little shot entitled Grim Couple on Bleak Pier or something depressingly similar.

 The Belgians might well have a reputation for being rather dour and a little dull, but they are definitely not lacking in a sense of humour.  Three large babies, part of a set of 15 created by the Czech sculptor David Cerny and originally placed along the sea wall to represent the town’s child friendliness, now adorn the wall of Blankenberg’s one casino, perched quite precariously at great height, and doing very little to reassure anyone about the town’s pledge to child safety.  

Blankenberg was definitely one of those places that would look better in the sunshine, but as for Bruges, I couldn’t fault it. The ideal spot for a romantic getaway – and talking of getaways, yes we did make it safely back to the UK without receiving a penalty for any traffic violations...

Under the Sea to Bruges

Extremely doubting the wisdom of leaving the teenager in charge following the Halloween debacle, it was with great trepidation that we set off for a romantic weekend in Bruges.

When our girls were little we holidayed in France nearly every year, usually heading to Brittany or the Vendee, an easy drive from the western ferry ports. The crossing used to be part of the fun.  Our holidays were planned with military like precision, routes researched, the car packed with hundreds of euro's and supplies for every eventuality; those continental motoring necessities of headlight converters, first aid kits and warning triangles safely stashed on board.

Now, when he's home on R&R and it’s just the two of us, we can be spontaneous, just hop in the car and go. We had decided to take the Channel Tunnel. Despite the fact that there is something slightly unnerving about travelling in an enclosed confined space under the sea, half an hour as a submariner in November seemed a preferable option to risking a choppy cross channel ferry. 

To pass the time on our short train journey, we munched on a sandwich and studied the RAC European motoring guide, where the words fluorescent jacket jumped out at us – a new legal driving requirement in both Belgium and France. Did we have one? No! Failure to possess a jacket, which has to be clearly visible in the back of your car, apparently carries an on the spot fine.

Before you could say moules and frites we were driving off the train in Calais and heading in a Bonnie and Clyde style of lawlessness towards the Belgium border. What if we were stopped by the police?  

Let’s just get to the hotel and all would be okay, I urged.  In an uncharacteristic stroke of forward planning Mr Romantic had phoned ahead and booked an underground parking space – our car, and its lack of jacket, would be safely hidden away, out of sight. That was when we discovered that not only did we not have our jacket, but we didn’t have directions to our hotel either. It was fine, he assured me, he’d stayed at the hotel before, he could remember his way through Bruges many tiny cobbled Medieval one way streets...

Circling the city twice, more through luck than judgement, we arrived. The car was deposited in the elevator to the garage, we were safely installed our luxurious room overlooking the canal.   He had redeemed himself, until he checked the website of the restaurant where we planned to spend the evening indulging in an expensive gastronomic delight, to discover it was cash only on Saturday nights. We headed out into the pouring rain to find an ATM.  So much for spontaneity....

The House of Horror

These were the rules: Yes she could have a party but for no more than 20 people, they had to stay in the kitchen and the conservatory, use the downstairs cloakroom and definitely no smoking indoors. We would go to the pub, but we would come back. It had to end at midnight.

It’s only a small Halloween party, I told myself, a chance for the teenager to catch up with her old school friends, socialise with some of the new, and drag in a couple of complete strangers off the street. The perfect party combo.  Add in some beer, copious amounts of vodka and a generous dose of who knows what else, and there you have it - 30 teenagers in the kitchen, in various stages of fancy dress, undress and total inebriation. Of course they weren’t all in the kitchen -  just go straight to your room mum, she said, don’t look at the stair carpet and don’t worry about the lad passed out on the landing or the two puking up in the bathroom.....

So how were these teenagers planning on getting home? On the train? Good what time is the last train? Half an hour ago. Apparently she had told them all they could stay the night. Where exactly??

The lights went on and the damage assessed.  Why do they drink so much? Why don’t they know when to stop? Why can’t they pick up a bottle when they break it? Why can’t they take their shoes off when they come in from the rain and head upstairs? Why were they even going upstairs? Why was I making such a fuss?  

Because I was genuinely concerned – not just about the state of my bathroom and my kitchen but about the welfare of these teenagers. I had visions of police, paramedics, parents, professional carpet cleaners..... 

So was I mad to let her have a party? Definitely according to my other half, what was I even thinking of? Discussing anything on our regular skype sessions is extremely difficult – conversations generally run along the lines of I can’t hear you, you’re frozen, you’re pixellated, what was that you said? I said she’s asked to have a small party on Halloween. I think his reply must have been lost somewhere in cyber space.

Those who did stay the night (and it was very many) seemed more than happy to clear up in the morning and they all assured me they’d had a great time.  If great referred to the amount of vomit produced, I could understand it, but is it really such fun throwing up all night?  

24 hours later and the house was more or less back to normal.  The worries and dramas of the previous evening had evaporated - the lost i-phone  had been found, the 16 year old set off by herself on the 3 mile walk home at 1.00 am had safely returned, and the passed out had revived. 

Nobody died, the teenager cheerfully pointed out. There was no permanent damage apart from a broken candle holder which I didn’t even like, the stair carpet was already looking better after only one attempt with the Vax, and ever since we’d moved in we’d been saying the hallway walls needed freshening up with a new coat of paint. In fact, both the bathrooms and the kitchen are now a lot cleaner than they’ve ever been so she’s probably done me a favour really....

Ed The Cat

Getting a pet was always going to a priority on our return to the UK – I’m on my own, husband away, I need something to make a fuss of and sit and fondle. A cat is the perfect substitute.

We already had a cat who had been left with the in-laws whilst we were in the US.  Typical of her fickle species, her allegiance quickly changed to whoever was in charge of the Whiskas packets and she soon made herself at home. It would have been cruel, not just on her, but on the in-laws, to ask for her return.

So the teenager requested a kitten.  She contacted the local cats charity to register for adoption and in less than 24 hours  we had been visited and vetted, and asked not just how soon we would like to take one, but how many kittens could we actually have? Well just the one was what we wanted, such a shame when they offered us 19.

19! Yes, that was just the number of homeless kittens in our immediate area and ready to go  that day. There were 150 across the whole of the local region. Why this massive population explosion? Neuturing apparently – people just don’t bother anymore.

So we set off to choose our cat.  10 week old kittens are of course irresistible and it was amazingly hard – but with those cute big ears, huge brown eyes and the ability to stand on his back legs and look like a meercat, Ed was the natural choice. At that point he had no name of course – we had to stock up on kitty supplies so left him at the homing centre for another couple of days whilst the teenager was left with the responsibility of deciding what to call him.

She chose Edward – after Ed Sheeran. I did point out that the kitten we had chosen was not ginger, but black and white, but he’s grown into it, and I couldn’t now imagine him being called anything else.

And of course he has been great fun. Not so much a kitten as a teenage boy, constantly out on the roam and eating us out of house and home. Yes he has now been castrated – we’re doing out bit for birth control, and he has enjoyed all the usual curiosity killed the cat  escapades of falling from trees, becoming stranded on the garage roof and painting his paws  pink with nail polish etc etc

The similarities between Ed and my husband are uncanny. He pricks up his ears at the first mention of food and purrs contently when stroked. Totally adorable and the perfect companion. Do I worry I’m going to end up an old lady on my own surrounded by cats? Absolutely.

Ye Olde British Pub Quiz Night

It’s official. Three years in that Californian sunshine as a stay at home mom and I have morphed into an OAP bimbo. A final splurge on the unpacking and I discovered the teenager’s Nintendo DS, and there untouched by time, was Dr Kawashima’s Brain Training game. How could I resist a flutter? Three years ago apparently I had a brain age of 26. Today it was 65.
 

What can be done? I do my best to keep the brain cells ticking over.  I write, I tackle the odd puzzle in the back of Bella, and then of course, there is the treat of my week - Pub Quiz night.

Every Wednesday I make up the numbers with a couple of former neighbours at the pub quiz.  When I used to live in the village, this pub was a quiet sleepy local with a few old regulars propping up the bar. Now once a week it attracts a selection of motley quizzers all eagerly chasing the first prize – a free drink.

Pubs are a unique part of British culture, and I missed them when we were in the US. A pub is not so much a place to drink, it's a social hub, a community centre. Sitting in this pub is like sitting in a friend's front room - without the TV of course (Americans please take note!).

Since taking part, I have learned so much – for example I now know that famous highwayman Dick Turpin was born in the Blue Bell Inn in Hempstead, Essex in 1705 (same question two weeks running) and that Winston Churchill was born two months premature in 1874. It will be forever ingrained on my memory that a bamboo flower only occurs once every 120 years –  a losing tie break question, and when in doubt the answer is inevitably Turkey.  I also now know that absolutely nothing happened in England between  2 and 14 September 1752 when country changed to the Gregorian calendar and the UK lost two weeks.

 

Such useful little gems I can now drop into everyday conversation, but the real reason I go of course is because it’s fun. A few weeks ago the quiz was hi-jacked by a team of six burly strangers. Throughout the course of the evening it became obvious that if these guys were going to become regulars there was absolutely no hope for the rest of us. Who were these people? Where were they from? What’s the fun in knowing all the answers? Was the landlord going to have to revert to loaded localised questions -  name his dog for example - for anyone else to stand a chance of ever winning?

Fortunately this group must have been unimpressed with their low-stakes prize and as yet, have not returned, and I’m proud to say that after three weeks on the trot of being runner up our team finally managed a win. The fact that a regular rival was enjoying a week on the Costa del Sol obviously helped, but I’d like to think brain power had something to do with it. 65 huh!

Hengistbury Head

When we lived in LA we explored.  We wanted to experience and see as much of America as we could – of course it’s a vast country and in reality we saw very little. Los Angeles is relatively isolated on the west coast and when you realise if you want to see somewhere else you are looking at a 3 or 4 hour flight, the urge to travel rapidly loses its appeal.

But we did do out best to explore Southern California, piling into the car and setting off on numerous road trips. The new adventurous me is committed to seeing as much of the UK as possible with the same sense of intrepid awe.

Home for a week from Saudi, the husband and I set off for a romantic tryst down to a luxurious hotel near the Dorset beauty spot of Hengistbury Head – it’s a mere hour’s drive from where we now live. Back in the US we’d have gone for breakfast and been home for lunch – in the UK we went for the whole weekend.

Hengistbury Head is an area of geological interest and natural beauty at the entrance to Christchurch Harbour.  At the tip of the headland is a spit of sand that stretches across the harbour entrance – on this sandbank sits a straddle of brightly coloured beach-huts that exchange hands for many  thousands of pounds a piece – no running water, no electricity. Not really my idea of a holiday home but we’re talking total exclusivity. You can tell by the accents of of the teenagers sat swigging beer on the  verandas that you have to be posh and privileged to afford a beach hut here.

Of course, when you’re staying in a beach hut on a sandbar, you need sunshine. Sadly that weekend it was in short supply. In fact it was chucking it down for most of the first day – horizontal rain and a howling gale. This wasn’t umbrella weather – it was wellies, full-length waterproofs and a sou’wester weather. It was awful. Hengistbury’s one waterfront cafe was doing a roaring trade – in fact I think some people were probably planning to stay there all day.

There was a break in the clouds so we ran  - setting off on a speedy hike over the headland with its views that stretch all the way along the south coast from Keyhaven in the East, the Isle of Wight and the Needles in the South, and Bournemouth and Poole in the West.  

Typical of the British weather, by evening the sun had come out in force and there was time for a  stroll around Mudeford Quay on the opposite side of the Christchurch harbour before our three course dinner at our boutiquey style hotel.  Only an hour’s wait for the main course – I’m so American – an hour’s wait!! Goodness if this was Pasadena we’d have been in and out and back home in front of the TV.....

Fifty Shades of LA

Naturally it was assumed that on my return to the UK I would start job hunting, after all did I not continually moan about being a lady of leisure? Well yes I did, but mostly because having been raised from birth with a serious sense of work ethic I felt guilty about having the time to go for a pedicure and long lazy lunches. Three years of not working and keeping myself amused and I’ve gone from thinking what would I do all day if I didn’t work to how could I possibly find the time to hold down a Job?

The UK is in recession and jobs are now in short supply. Realising that even if I did wish to find employment, it wasn’t going to be easy, when I saw a local company advertising for a part-time administrator I hurriedly completed my on-line CV.  Absolute panic set in when I received a request to attend an interview the very next day.  I managed to put it off – I was due to paint my nails or something (actually the shipping container was being delivered) but then I made some further enquiries to find out exactly how many “part-time” hours a week were required and  ended up withdrawing my application altogether. What an earth had I been thinking of? 24 hours a week in an office after the freedom of California? It was just too much!

So I have negotiated a year’s reprieve from job seeking – after all with my husband working away what fun could we have on his R&R  if I was stuck  in an office all day?

And talking of fun, this does now mean that I can dedicate my time to writing my book - a genuine guide to ex-pat living based on my blog,  Life in the LA Bubble, although judging by  current trends I am seriously going to have to spice it up a bit to stand any chance of commercial success. My Sex Life in the LA Bubble is probably how it's going to have to end up.
 

I have every admiration for any author who can get work published and if that means lowering my standards, trust me I’ll do it. I can use my imagination....on the beach at Santa Monica, suspended from a coat hanger in my huge Hollywood style walk-in-closet, half way round the Buzz Lightyear laser ride at Disney - you name it, that’s where we did it - a torrid tale of sex-pats on tour or something similar.

I’m not quite sure how Fifty Shades hero Christian Grey as a CEO of major international corporation has the energy to return home after a hectic day making millions at the office to ravish his wife six times a night. My other half, a hard working employee of a similar major international corporation, could barely stay awake long enough to eat his dinner, let alone have the energy to get up to any tricks on the billiard table. That, I suppose is the difference between fact and fiction, and what makes a bestseller.

Unlock the handcuffs darling, I need to write another chapter.....

Rewind

  

My new found  "me time" must be used wisely. 

The invitation to join a friend at this summer's annual  Rewind 80's music festival in Henley  sounded like the  perfect solution to my quest to get out more and embark on new adventures. 

 

Luckily camping was not on the agenda but I packed my wellies, my folding armchair (I’m pretty sure kids don’t take those to Glastonbury but what the heck) and even managed to sneak in a Go-Ahead bar past festival security – I like to live dangerously. Security was surprisingly tight considering the majority of the audience were well into their 40’s. What’s the harm in a packet of jaffa cakes?

I was a total festival virgin but I needn't have worried. The wellies remained in locked in the car  the whole weekend and the sun shone.  Even the toilet facilities were surprisingly clean - on the first day!

1980’s music blared out for the whole weekend and I relived my youth. I was a New Romantic and 30 years later there I was still jumping up and down to a bit of Tainted Love. It was great to see Midge Ure, Marc Almond, Tony Hadley and the two guys from OMD still giving it their all.  Put a bit of sticking plaster across your nose - and there you have it - Adam Ant. Yes he was there too, to the delight of an audience very hot sweaty dandy highwaymen.

I decided this is the festival that parents take their teenage kids to for punishment –  yes you will have to suffer the indignity of watching mum and dad dancing in that weird 80’s way to all those old blokes up on stage. If my teenager doesn’t behave herself I’ve already threatened her with this next year.  The date’s  marked in my diary.  If she’s really bad, I might well add to the excitement by going in 80’s style fancy dress – yes I too could be a drunken rubic cube shaking my stuff at 2.00 pm on a Saturday afternoon.

I belong to a generation that is determined to grow old disgracefully. When my kids were small they used to ask why old ladies always had curly grey permed hair - well in future they won't.  I can't do anything about the curls, they happen naturally every time it rains, but grey - definitely not. Nor will there be whist drives or tea dances - as long as Rewind stays around.

 

 

 

The New Regime

The key thing about blogging is to make the mundane seem interesting.


An LA lifestyle sounds so exotic -  cocktails by the pool, red carpet events, rubbing shoulders with celebrities. Of course it wasn't like that at all - there was the housework, the school run, the grocery shopping......but experiencing everyday life in a totally different setting and  having the opportunity  to embrace a new culture, both the weird and the wonderful, did make blogging extremely easy. There was just so much to write about. 

A blog is nothing more than an on-line diary - I worry that blogging about life in the UK will not just sound decidedly dull, but could also seriously damage my social life.  Will friends want to go out with me if they know their antics could end up on-line? I'll have to airbrush events, change names, use a bit of artistic licence. I need my old friends. I used to return to the UK two or three times a year from the US and have a manic week socialising – out to coffee, out to lunch; wining and dining every night. Now I have to pace myself to once a week - I don’t want to over-do the needy person routine. 

I need to make being by myself fun.  I need to get out more. 

When we lived in the US we were determined to make the most of every moment.  Now I need to do the same here.   Travel broadens the mind, widens horizons and changes perceptions.  The UK seems so small - small roads, small parking spaces, but oh so cozy and so comforting. I need to be more adventurous. This is the first time I've lived on my own for any great length of time, and yes I know I have a cat and a teenager but they are both pretty independent creatures who don't demand an awful lot of attention.

So, the new order begins.  The husband is hard at work in the Saudi desert, daughter no 1 is still in London about to embark on the third year of her degree, and the teenager is off to sixth form.  It's just me, the cat and the keyboard.

 

 

 

 

 

Life After LA

Me, missing California? No way. All that sunshine? Who needs it. It’s England in September and I’m in a vest top and cotton skirt; I’ve had lunch in the pub; a walk in the countryside. What more could I want?

I spent three years living in LA and I couldn’t wait to return to the UK.  I’d got fed up of that easy lifestyle in the land of celebrity and excess. I’d got fed up of hearing about Kim Kardashian and Kobe Bryant (Kobe who?) every morning on the local LA news. The novelty of living in a bubble and not knowing what was going on in the rest of the world had worn off. In the US there is no rest of the world – the world starts at the Pacific west coast and ends 2,500 miles later at the Atlantic.  Anything north of Wisconsin or south of San Diego – who needs to know?  Talk about insular!

But  now of course, back in that lush green countryside, all those things I craved as normal now seem rather strange. I hadn’t realised just how acclimitised I had become – not just to the mega convenience of US life, but I’d become a townie.  Now I’m back in the longed for countryside  and I realise I’ve only been to movies once in the last 8 weeks. I’ve only had one takeaway, I have to get in my car every time I need something from the grocery store. And it costs me £50( $80) to fill my car up with gas.

I used to complain I felt I didn’t fit in – the friends I left behind were the ones I felt comfortable and familiar with. Now I’m out of touch with everyone again; I’m the fish out of water and I have to muscle my way back in. Last time I lived here I was a working mum of two teenagers. Now I'm this lazy leisure lady with too much time on her hands. My old friends are all at work; they have their routine.   I’m the one in the chaos zone.

Do I get up? Do I stay in bed? No I’ll write another blog. 

You see everyone writes a blog about being an ex-pat, but nobody warns you what it's like when you come back - as an Ex-ex-pat, and to be honest it is a bit weird.  It's unsettling; what I used to always think of "home" is actually unfamiliar territory.

Of course it wont be as exciting as Life in the LA Bubble because well, this isn’t LA any more. This is  England. But I still do things. I go out. I go to events. I visit places. How hard can it be to come up with 500 irreverent words every week?  Time to suck it and see.