This is a blog about an ex-pat Brit with an Australian twang, rediscovering her homeland after 35 years abroad.
“You’ll only do it once,” they said. Those wise sages who think they know everything about living in an English cottage built for our 16th-century ancestors who were, on average, 5’5″. They are of course referring to the inevitable – and painful – head meets beam scenario. They are wrong about only doing it once.
If I’d known last month what I know today, it wouldn’t have helped. Four weeks ago I thought we could get off a plane in London, buy a car, and drive to Suffolk to start our big adventure. But it didn’t all go according to plan.
I thought yesterday’s roller-coaster ride had run its course when we finally relaxed over a glass of wine and a middle eastern feast at Za Za Ta. Instead, it reached a crescendo of panic when I received a frantic call from the UK around 8pm.
Our life in Australia is now packed into four suitcases. We have no car, no house and no Plan B. There is only one way forward.
Go on. I defy you. Look this dog in the eye and say “So long, Molly. We’re off – without you.”
You couldn’t, could you. Neither could we.
Lesson #1: If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it’s just as likely to be a shark
I came straight home and told Russell not to go near the place. Don’t vote. Nor will we pay their hypocritical fine.
So, there we were at the beginning of 2020, house sold, money in the bank, starting to plan our ‘Big Adventure’ in the UK. And, boom!
Soon we’ll be packing our life into the last of our suitcases and moving to the other side of the world. This hellish decision making process will finally be over.