I realise I haven't blogged much over the past few months. I'm not really sure why this is. Perhaps living in the UK feels a little un-noteworthy - a little prosaic - after the exotic challenges presented by living upside down on the other side of the world where Christmas is in midsummer and July is a little chilly, or in a place where you are woken at 5am to the crackling sound of the Muezzin wailing the Call to Prayer as it splinters through the morning air. Is living here just too 'ordinary' to write about?
Of course the answer is it's far from normal here, since in truth at this point I really don't know what 'normal' is - what is 'normal'?
I still send the windscreen wipers hurtling across the windscreen every time I click on my indicators when out driving (did the same thing in Australia for three years - they drive on the same side but for some reasons the wipers and indicators are reversed). I still - after spending the first year in Australia asking for 'cash back' instead of 'cash out', find myself momentarily struck dumb when using my card at a check-out - which is it?
I no longer need to ask for a flat white when out for a coffee, a white coffee is understood, or simpler still a black coffee with some milk please. And like the first few months in Oz , I'm back to trying to decipher school notes (of which there are, sigh, sooo many) - what on earth is a Tombola? Or a Jarbola for that matter? I remember receiving a school note from our school in Helena Valley, and having to pull my friend aside and ask - what is a sausage sizzle? What is footy tipping? What is a sports carnival - some sort of parade or funfair?
I'm having to unlearn and relearn the little codes and rules which apply in this part of the country, not least that the strong arm of the law is never far from reach. For example, DH was caught speeding and was forced to go on a half day training course or face penalty points on his license. It was his first offence, you'd think a fine would suffice. He was most vexed although in fairness hasn't been caught speeding since so perhaps it works... And when my daughter missed quite a few days from school during her first two months - a combination of no car for a while (and missed buses), several orthodontic appointments and my ignorance in reporting said absences properly, I was summoned to the school for an interview to 'get to the bottom of it' despite my protests that nothing was wrong. I half expected them to follow it up with an inspection of my house and a monitoring of my parenting skills! (perhaps they still will!) And my rental invoice each month arrives with a big 'DEMAND' written at the top and I can't help but feel that I'm in trouble, even though I'm not quite sure why. Most unpleasant. Can't imagine how fearful life is on benefits here..
One thing that strikes me about here is the sense that everything is at is should be, with little room for enterprise or opportunity. This may be to do with my location, but I don't feel I can carve out my niche here, as I felt in Australia or the UAE. In those countries the concept of 'chancing your arm' is alive and well and opportunities abound if only you're open to them. In the UAE I walked into an English teaching job following a very relaxed chat with the school manager and got my own magazine column with little more than this blog attached to an email. Likewise, in the bush I secured plenty of work with the local Shire magazine simply by asking.
And there were plenty of other opportunities which I simply didn't take out of fear or laziness.
Here it feels a little strangled, as if it's all been decided and the only thing for someone like me to do is volunteer at a local charity shop or stack shelves overnight in Tesco. Neither are particularly appealing.
Perhaps I'm being a little negative there, perhaps...
On the plus side, the house we're renting is lovely - I was adamant that a move to the English countryside necessitated a house made of stone with wisteria on the front and that's exactly what we got. Rents are criminally high here but we have quite a gem considering we'd be paying roughly the same for something on an estate closer to town. With this many children it is our preference to be away from prying eyes and listening ears, this family is LOUD.
Tragically the house is on the HS2 death row, meaning it is set for demolition in future to make way for a highly controversial high speed rail link between Birmingham and London, a development which will carve up some of the most stunning countryside in the UK, taking many stately homes and listed buildings with it.
This I find most upsetting since we've mentally laid claim to this house now (although in reality couldn't hope to afford to buy it in real life) and I may have to declare squatters rights and chain myself to the gate should the demolition team ever show up.
The village school is but a short walk away and the children love it although are at times perplexed by the introduction of religion into it, not least because the schools here are secular.
They attended a ceremony in the local church before Christmas and my eight-year-old, highly annoyed by the whole thing commented -
" There was a nun on the stage!"
"Really? Was she nice?"
"It was a 'he' - he was wearing a dress!"
Ah...a priest on an altar then...Sister Margaret Mary from the Sacred Heart School would shudder in her grave at the little heathens I'm raising...good...
Of course the answer is it's far from normal here, since in truth at this point I really don't know what 'normal' is - what is 'normal'?
I still send the windscreen wipers hurtling across the windscreen every time I click on my indicators when out driving (did the same thing in Australia for three years - they drive on the same side but for some reasons the wipers and indicators are reversed). I still - after spending the first year in Australia asking for 'cash back' instead of 'cash out', find myself momentarily struck dumb when using my card at a check-out - which is it?
I no longer need to ask for a flat white when out for a coffee, a white coffee is understood, or simpler still a black coffee with some milk please. And like the first few months in Oz , I'm back to trying to decipher school notes (of which there are, sigh, sooo many) - what on earth is a Tombola? Or a Jarbola for that matter? I remember receiving a school note from our school in Helena Valley, and having to pull my friend aside and ask - what is a sausage sizzle? What is footy tipping? What is a sports carnival - some sort of parade or funfair?
I'm having to unlearn and relearn the little codes and rules which apply in this part of the country, not least that the strong arm of the law is never far from reach. For example, DH was caught speeding and was forced to go on a half day training course or face penalty points on his license. It was his first offence, you'd think a fine would suffice. He was most vexed although in fairness hasn't been caught speeding since so perhaps it works... And when my daughter missed quite a few days from school during her first two months - a combination of no car for a while (and missed buses), several orthodontic appointments and my ignorance in reporting said absences properly, I was summoned to the school for an interview to 'get to the bottom of it' despite my protests that nothing was wrong. I half expected them to follow it up with an inspection of my house and a monitoring of my parenting skills! (perhaps they still will!) And my rental invoice each month arrives with a big 'DEMAND' written at the top and I can't help but feel that I'm in trouble, even though I'm not quite sure why. Most unpleasant. Can't imagine how fearful life is on benefits here..
One thing that strikes me about here is the sense that everything is at is should be, with little room for enterprise or opportunity. This may be to do with my location, but I don't feel I can carve out my niche here, as I felt in Australia or the UAE. In those countries the concept of 'chancing your arm' is alive and well and opportunities abound if only you're open to them. In the UAE I walked into an English teaching job following a very relaxed chat with the school manager and got my own magazine column with little more than this blog attached to an email. Likewise, in the bush I secured plenty of work with the local Shire magazine simply by asking.
And there were plenty of other opportunities which I simply didn't take out of fear or laziness.
Here it feels a little strangled, as if it's all been decided and the only thing for someone like me to do is volunteer at a local charity shop or stack shelves overnight in Tesco. Neither are particularly appealing.
Perhaps I'm being a little negative there, perhaps...On the plus side, the house we're renting is lovely - I was adamant that a move to the English countryside necessitated a house made of stone with wisteria on the front and that's exactly what we got. Rents are criminally high here but we have quite a gem considering we'd be paying roughly the same for something on an estate closer to town. With this many children it is our preference to be away from prying eyes and listening ears, this family is LOUD.
Tragically the house is on the HS2 death row, meaning it is set for demolition in future to make way for a highly controversial high speed rail link between Birmingham and London, a development which will carve up some of the most stunning countryside in the UK, taking many stately homes and listed buildings with it.
This I find most upsetting since we've mentally laid claim to this house now (although in reality couldn't hope to afford to buy it in real life) and I may have to declare squatters rights and chain myself to the gate should the demolition team ever show up.
The village school is but a short walk away and the children love it although are at times perplexed by the introduction of religion into it, not least because the schools here are secular.
They attended a ceremony in the local church before Christmas and my eight-year-old, highly annoyed by the whole thing commented -
" There was a nun on the stage!"
"Really? Was she nice?"
"It was a 'he' - he was wearing a dress!"
Ah...a priest on an altar then...Sister Margaret Mary from the Sacred Heart School would shudder in her grave at the little heathens I'm raising...good...
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