I arrived in London in 2002 with a large suitcase and a Scottish twenty pound note, which I would later find surprisingly difficult to spend. I intended to stay ‘maybe six months’ to see if I could find work.
Next Monday I’m finally returning to the Motherland, with a husband and a baby and a weird career and some low-level skin complaints. I arrived with a suitcase, but I’m leaving with baggage.
I wanted to write a useful, coherent post about the logistics of moving a long way in a short time with a young baby, but it turns out that would just read ‘Aaaaaaarghwtf BUY BUBBLE WRAP’ and then just loads of gifs of cats somersaulting off kitchen counters, so I’ll just post about what’s happening each day instead. You’re welcome.
Marcus the Moving Man is coming to give us a few boxes for the stuff we want to pack ourselves. He says we can’t pack the baby, even though we have offered to put holes in the top of the box.
We are practising putting Ada in the car at random times so she doesn’t get so freaked out by it. We have made progress in that she no longer actively fights the car seat straps and now just stares mournfully at her lap, hooting.
I got accidentally obsessed with the Broadway musical Hamilton, and now wander around the house doing inaccurate freestyle rapping about the American Revolution, like a really pale and intense ghost. This is not helping anyone.
Oh, we’re moving to Broughty Ferry, by the way. I haven’t actually been there in about fifteen years, but I have good impressionistic memories of chips and sand and icy maritime gusts. Excellent.