Here is a random list of things that have changed in Britain in the five and a half years since we moved away.
It was 12-06 when we left. It was 06-12 when we returned. That makes it easy to remember for filling in forms. And it's tidy. I like life to be tidy. It so often isn't, that when there are little tidy things like this, it makes me happy.
Pharmacists can now dispense a decent level of medication. Yay. This makes total sense. It was being talked about when we left, I seem to remember, but now it's really happened. So I went and got some antibiotic eye drops for conjunctivitis, without having to prostrate myself in front of a doctor's receptionist, begging abjectly for an appointment. I just needed a few prompts from the pharmacist, who was helpful enough to give them to me. "Not sticky? Just red and itchy? Are you sure not sticky? How about first thing in the morning, when you wake up? A bit sticky then, perhaps? Yes..? Ah, it's sticky. It's just that that's one of the symptoms I have to hear." I love it when people beat the system.
A first class postage stamp is now 60p. What? Don't be expecting any birthday cards from me any more. If Amazon can deliver large, heavy packages for free, why does the Royal Mail need 60p to deliver a small, light card? They ought to be paying us, actually, for feeding those red boxes and keeping them in business. Just before we left, the Royal Mail changed the way they charge for packages. Instead of the simple weighing of a parcel, they'd introduced a system which required the counter staff to weigh it, measure it, see if it would fit through a slot, balance it on their head, do a cartwheel with it between their knees, and spin in on a 50p piece. It seemed a little over-burdensome to me. I hate to say "see, I told you so", but here we are, with a first class stamp at 60p. I only remains for me to make a joke about the Royal Mail and the front page of the Sun. Consider it made.
There are an awful lot of tv channels - more than you can shake a tv remote at. Perhaps there were in 12-06 and we just didn't subscribe to them. We weren't missing much. There are the five old favourites, and then several hundred others, which repeat what was on the five old faves, either a few hours later, or a few years later. I shouldn't complain really. It's quite useful for us. If we want to watch today's tv, we can. If we want to pretend we're in a time warp and have never been away at all, we can do that too.
Smartphones. They're rather good, aren't they? Husband and I have each got one. We didn't plan to, and the very thought of us owning one each had our children smirking and giggling. They felt rather protective of us, and wanted to come shopping with us, to help us sort out our phone needs. I think they worried that we'd be sold a tv remote at smartphone price, and come home proudly brandishing it, not realising we'd been ripped off. Oh they of little faith! In fact, we went to Tesco, got a fabulous deal, and came home rejoicing that there is at least one thing that is seriously cheaper in Britain than it is in America. Come to think of it, why isn't there an app that allows you to change channels on the tv with your smartphone? That would save you the enormous effort of having to put it down on the coffee table, and pick up the remote, and then do the same manoeuvre in reverse. You could save seconds. Valuable seconds. This is the 21st century. It does rather worry me, though, that the country is being run by Tesco, not the government. Which one, honestly, has more influence over our daily lives?
My waist. I used to have one. I definitely did. I remember it well. I don't now. It must be to do with climate change and air pressure, or something like that. Very odd.
There's one thing that hasn't changed. For this, I join the many-voiced chorus of Americans who have lived in, or even just visited, Britain. Oh, Mixer Taps!! Why don't we have them over here? How hard could that be? I can't tell you how backward it feels to have temperature discrimination in our taps, when you have been used to the unsegregated flow of a simple mixer tap. O... M... T...!!
.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Monday, August 13, 2012
Leaving a home
On the way up to Edinburgh, we stayed overnight with my parents in law. It was the last time we will stay in that house. They are moving too. At the same time as we have headed east from America to Scotland, they are heading east from the Pennines to the Moors. A smaller journey geographically, but who can measure these things emotionally? They are leaving the house they moved to when Husband was 13, where they have lived for nearly 40 years.
It's never been my home, but as we drove away for the last time, going through the usual driving away ritual with a double beep on the horn and arms waving from the windows, I felt sad. That house holds 17 years of memories for me:
The first time I met my future parents in law, and we had a Chinese takeaway. It must have been an impromptu visit, I think, though I can't remember the details. If it had been arranged in advance, I'm sure they'd have cooked us dinner. Fish pie, probably.
The first week-end I stayed there, and the feedback via Husband from his mother: "She's a lovely girl, isn't she?"
Telling them we were going to get married, and hugs all round, though it had been difficult to find the right moment. We were bursting with the news, and every time we were about to start the announcement, Granny (though not Granny at the time) would get up to potter into the kitchen to see to the meal.
Those early visits with a baby and a boot full of baby equipment, nervously attending to his needs out of the comfort of our own environment. Later visits with three children, when dealing with just one baby would have seemed like a walk in the park. The cot, the highchair, the box of toys, bought for visiting grandchildren, to relieve our car boot of its burden, and to stand sentinel between our visits.
Being there for Grandad's 60th birthday, the day on which Princess Diana died.
The hatch between the kitchen and the dining room, which has entertained the children far more than any toy or game.
The trips to "the rec", the park, the canal to feed the ducks.
The traditional game of running round the house as many times as possible. The record is 150, held by 11-yo, (though we rely on self-counting, so I can't vouch for the accuracy of that figure).
The joke about how it always rains (and it usually does). There was one legendary trip when we drove up from the south in blazing sunshine, and when we were 10 minutes away from arriving, the sky clouded over and the drizzle started, as if to prove a point, or join in the joke.
Some of the memories have become stories for our children. "Granny kept saying "I must just see to the vegetables" and leaving the room, so you couldn't even tell them. Was that how it was?"
Then I think of the phone calls that have been received there. "A boy! Wonderful! How's Iota doing?" "Another boy! Is all well?" "A girl! Oh... a girl! How is everyone?" "You got the job... America... When will you leave..?" "Cancer? They're sure? What happens now?" So many moments that, like a child's dot-to-dot puzzle, join together to make a picture.
A house. It's so much more than a house. I'm homesick, and it wasn't even ever my home.
.
It's never been my home, but as we drove away for the last time, going through the usual driving away ritual with a double beep on the horn and arms waving from the windows, I felt sad. That house holds 17 years of memories for me:
The first time I met my future parents in law, and we had a Chinese takeaway. It must have been an impromptu visit, I think, though I can't remember the details. If it had been arranged in advance, I'm sure they'd have cooked us dinner. Fish pie, probably.
The first week-end I stayed there, and the feedback via Husband from his mother: "She's a lovely girl, isn't she?"
Telling them we were going to get married, and hugs all round, though it had been difficult to find the right moment. We were bursting with the news, and every time we were about to start the announcement, Granny (though not Granny at the time) would get up to potter into the kitchen to see to the meal.
Those early visits with a baby and a boot full of baby equipment, nervously attending to his needs out of the comfort of our own environment. Later visits with three children, when dealing with just one baby would have seemed like a walk in the park. The cot, the highchair, the box of toys, bought for visiting grandchildren, to relieve our car boot of its burden, and to stand sentinel between our visits.
Being there for Grandad's 60th birthday, the day on which Princess Diana died.
The hatch between the kitchen and the dining room, which has entertained the children far more than any toy or game.
The trips to "the rec", the park, the canal to feed the ducks.
The traditional game of running round the house as many times as possible. The record is 150, held by 11-yo, (though we rely on self-counting, so I can't vouch for the accuracy of that figure).
The joke about how it always rains (and it usually does). There was one legendary trip when we drove up from the south in blazing sunshine, and when we were 10 minutes away from arriving, the sky clouded over and the drizzle started, as if to prove a point, or join in the joke.
Some of the memories have become stories for our children. "Granny kept saying "I must just see to the vegetables" and leaving the room, so you couldn't even tell them. Was that how it was?"
Then I think of the phone calls that have been received there. "A boy! Wonderful! How's Iota doing?" "Another boy! Is all well?" "A girl! Oh... a girl! How is everyone?" "You got the job... America... When will you leave..?" "Cancer? They're sure? What happens now?" So many moments that, like a child's dot-to-dot puzzle, join together to make a picture.
A house. It's so much more than a house. I'm homesick, and it wasn't even ever my home.
.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
I love you all, but...
... no post tonight.
You know you're not in America, when you move house and have to wait over a month for a landline and internet connection. Yes, you read that correctly. Over... a... month... A very long month. Because a BT engineer has to come and activate our internet hub thingy (already installed in the house), before anyone from any other company can do whatever they do to get us connected. Apparetly BT are very busy. 15-yo asked if that didn't count as a monopoly, and if so, why was it allowed. I didn't know the answer.
All I do know is that not having a landline or the internet is a pain in the proverbial, though also strangely useful. It does mean that life is remarkably uninterrupted, and that unpacking can happen at our own pace. On the other hand, it also means that you can end up driving for over an hour round the city, because you're using the GPS to tell you where things are, instead of looking them up on the internet. The GPS tells you that a vet surgery (more on that in a minute) is 3.5 miles away. What it doesn't tell you is that the vet surgery it has in mind is the other side of the city centre, where there are serious semi-permanent roadworks, a zillion tourist buses, roads closed because of some international arts festival or other called "The Edinburgh Festival", and that it's lunchtime. I resorted to stopping at a petrol station and asking the way to the ring road after the vet surgery, which actually was a very clever move. I've only lived here six days and I'm already more savvy than the GPS. That's a relief. I hate being out-smarted by a GPS. That smug tone of voice... That know-it-all superior attitude... Though it has given me a good idea for an epitaph. I think I might have "Recalculating your route" written on my tombstone.
All of which is to apologise for the fact that I'm not posting much at the moment. BT are too busy to connect us up to the internet at home. When I do sneakily find internet access, hidden away in Husband's office (it takes three keys to get in here, but I get a splendid view of the city from the window), I have a whole list of boring admin things to do. Plus I did absolutely promise the kids that I would look at the Scottish Kennel Club website. A promise is a promise, so I must do so (though they are incorrect if they think it will make me more likely to get a puppy in the next three weeks before their term starts, rather than waiting sensibly until we are a little more settled in - as I have explained to them more than a few times). Faced with the choice of engaging with my beloved, but patient and far-flung, bloggy friends, or satisfying the impatient and close at hand demands of my children, I'm afraid I'm opting for the Scottish Kennel Club website.
This dog lark... it's a part-time job, I tell you, and I haven't even got the blessed thing yet.
.
You know you're not in America, when you move house and have to wait over a month for a landline and internet connection. Yes, you read that correctly. Over... a... month... A very long month. Because a BT engineer has to come and activate our internet hub thingy (already installed in the house), before anyone from any other company can do whatever they do to get us connected. Apparetly BT are very busy. 15-yo asked if that didn't count as a monopoly, and if so, why was it allowed. I didn't know the answer.
All I do know is that not having a landline or the internet is a pain in the proverbial, though also strangely useful. It does mean that life is remarkably uninterrupted, and that unpacking can happen at our own pace. On the other hand, it also means that you can end up driving for over an hour round the city, because you're using the GPS to tell you where things are, instead of looking them up on the internet. The GPS tells you that a vet surgery (more on that in a minute) is 3.5 miles away. What it doesn't tell you is that the vet surgery it has in mind is the other side of the city centre, where there are serious semi-permanent roadworks, a zillion tourist buses, roads closed because of some international arts festival or other called "The Edinburgh Festival", and that it's lunchtime. I resorted to stopping at a petrol station and asking the way to the ring road after the vet surgery, which actually was a very clever move. I've only lived here six days and I'm already more savvy than the GPS. That's a relief. I hate being out-smarted by a GPS. That smug tone of voice... That know-it-all superior attitude... Though it has given me a good idea for an epitaph. I think I might have "Recalculating your route" written on my tombstone.
All of which is to apologise for the fact that I'm not posting much at the moment. BT are too busy to connect us up to the internet at home. When I do sneakily find internet access, hidden away in Husband's office (it takes three keys to get in here, but I get a splendid view of the city from the window), I have a whole list of boring admin things to do. Plus I did absolutely promise the kids that I would look at the Scottish Kennel Club website. A promise is a promise, so I must do so (though they are incorrect if they think it will make me more likely to get a puppy in the next three weeks before their term starts, rather than waiting sensibly until we are a little more settled in - as I have explained to them more than a few times). Faced with the choice of engaging with my beloved, but patient and far-flung, bloggy friends, or satisfying the impatient and close at hand demands of my children, I'm afraid I'm opting for the Scottish Kennel Club website.
This dog lark... it's a part-time job, I tell you, and I haven't even got the blessed thing yet.
.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)