Relocation looks so easy on the television. The idea of moving started as a chance remark, one that almost passed unnoticed. But when my eldest muttered, ‘I … Sixth form …elsewhere,’ I took it as a green light that I could seriously consider a long harboured desire to escape the congestion of South London and move one husband, three children, two cats, one dog and a lifetimes worth of clutter to the unknown wilds of rural Sussex.
Maybe it was the monotony of the weekly repetition of Monday night’s risotto [I’m not the world’s most inventive cook, seven dishes for seven nights - seems fair to me] that made #1 child speak out. Now, for those of you not coherent with teenspeak, especially teenspeak with a mouthful of food, it can be preferable to the Kevin - like, solitary grunt as, although it is delivered faster than the speed of sound, you can sometimes get enough clues to fill in the missing words.
As soon as the statement was out of her mouth it was swallowed up among the tangle of conversations at the table; arguments between the younger two about whose turn it was to wash up, accusations that it just wasn’t fair that my youngest, # 3 child was allowed, yet again, to worm his way out of chores because he seemed to have another bout of wiping -up constipation. Rather than go into battle head-on, my husband, Nick and I decided the safest course of action was to direct operations from the table, finishing the last of the Merlot.
It was only me that registered the profundity of the earlier statement from # 1. I tucked the notion of moving away whilst following through my threats of; no time on the computer, [the ultimate threat for # 3] unless all chores were finished, homework completed, shower taken and just as a final flourish, ‘without arguing.’ I decided to confront #1 later as to the sincerity of her remark. Although we were keen to escape suburbia, Nick and I had resigned ourselves to staying put for eternity in our cosy semi whilst the three offspring completed their education. I was busy masquerading as a responsible adult, juggling part- time teaching (slowly losing my enthusiasm) freelance writing (loving every minute but not making enough money to love more than a minute) and occasionally wearing my secretarial outfit (strictly in the office only)whilst running our Project Management company.
I had often dreamed of the rural idyll, especially during those moments when staring into space at the computer waiting for the brain blockage to become free flowing again. But I was fearful that uprooting the three children would lay us open to future accusations. The offspring, to my knowledge, hadn’t come across Larkin, but I was wary that it could be used in future years that the reason they ‘didn’t achieve or weren’t able to’ do all those things that as a child you blame your parents for, would come winging back to me in verse form. Having stayed in the same area for most of my life my knowledge of local amenities had grown alongside my shoe size, making me realise that the enormity of relocation was paramount to climbing Everest and leaving Sherpa Tensing at base camp. Where on earth did we start to consider moving to and how insane was I to even consider it?
But, I’ve always had a thing about the South Downs. When I was a child my siblings and I would eagerly count down the days until we could pack the car and make the journey to Bracklesham Bay for our two week, bucket and spade holiday. The morning would arrive and pandemonium would entail as my parents struggled to pack their unruly brood of six into the hired minibus. Although well past the age of enjoying being squashed between my sister and a large suitcase, whenever I drive down the A23, I experience the rush of childhood excitement when the Downs come into view.
I had mixed feelings towards our current residential area in South London. When we moved in it was a green and pleasant land. Neighbours spoke to you and the local parade of shops had a greengrocer, butchers and post office. Now, we had a corner shop that sold all, regardless of your age or degree of sobriety; a pub that held late night slanging matches, mud bath level, no ticket required and a special collection of run down billboards where the schoolchildren could check their spellings from the graffiti on display.
I was uneasy that the congestion of London was beginning to spread its fingers out ever further, grasping all that came into its path; the handcuff of the M25 seemed struggling to contain its hunger. It took so long to cross a road, find a parking space or chat to a neighbour that I feared I would be wrinkled and grey before I took the first step. I no longer wanted to see the man across the road choosing his daily wardrobe whilst I was still in my bed, however attractive his underpants were. Claustrophobia was cementing itself in my bones and I felt as though the council’s planning department had a vendetta against my condition.
But like any right minded woman, I wanted it all. I loved that within half an hour of slamming my front door I could be in the heart of the London, sniffing a fix of taxi fumes, watching the eccentric buskers in Convent Garden or pretending to be posh in Fortnum’s. Maybe it was time to realise that I should come clean and rid myself of London’s drug; I could always visit occasionally to get my fix. Besides being able to have a choice of shops to pick up speciality breads and choose your Friday night takeaway, still getting it home piping hot, were not priorities on which to base one’s life.
With a spark of hope that we could break free and make new roots outside London, I decided it was time to test the waters and step out of my comfort zone. We had one year in which we could safely pluck #1 from her school to a Sixth Form College elsewhere, find #2 her secondary school and settle #3 into a Primary, before he understood that he should have complained but didn’t realise he could.
Later that evening with the natives securely settled in their beds - well, the two youngest, #1 being 16, was well past the age when I could tell her what to do, although I did dream sometimes that she was still five and under my control - I sneaked my way past Nick, ensconced on the sofa, to my secret weapon and asked the search engine to do its magic. Perhaps if I had an idea of what was out there to move to, I would be able to make up my mind where to go?
Teresa x
Maybe it was the monotony of the weekly repetition of Monday night’s risotto [I’m not the world’s most inventive cook, seven dishes for seven nights - seems fair to me] that made #1 child speak out. Now, for those of you not coherent with teenspeak, especially teenspeak with a mouthful of food, it can be preferable to the Kevin - like, solitary grunt as, although it is delivered faster than the speed of sound, you can sometimes get enough clues to fill in the missing words.
As soon as the statement was out of her mouth it was swallowed up among the tangle of conversations at the table; arguments between the younger two about whose turn it was to wash up, accusations that it just wasn’t fair that my youngest, # 3 child was allowed, yet again, to worm his way out of chores because he seemed to have another bout of wiping -up constipation. Rather than go into battle head-on, my husband, Nick and I decided the safest course of action was to direct operations from the table, finishing the last of the Merlot.
It was only me that registered the profundity of the earlier statement from # 1. I tucked the notion of moving away whilst following through my threats of; no time on the computer, [the ultimate threat for # 3] unless all chores were finished, homework completed, shower taken and just as a final flourish, ‘without arguing.’ I decided to confront #1 later as to the sincerity of her remark. Although we were keen to escape suburbia, Nick and I had resigned ourselves to staying put for eternity in our cosy semi whilst the three offspring completed their education. I was busy masquerading as a responsible adult, juggling part- time teaching (slowly losing my enthusiasm) freelance writing (loving every minute but not making enough money to love more than a minute) and occasionally wearing my secretarial outfit (strictly in the office only)whilst running our Project Management company.
I had often dreamed of the rural idyll, especially during those moments when staring into space at the computer waiting for the brain blockage to become free flowing again. But I was fearful that uprooting the three children would lay us open to future accusations. The offspring, to my knowledge, hadn’t come across Larkin, but I was wary that it could be used in future years that the reason they ‘didn’t achieve or weren’t able to’ do all those things that as a child you blame your parents for, would come winging back to me in verse form. Having stayed in the same area for most of my life my knowledge of local amenities had grown alongside my shoe size, making me realise that the enormity of relocation was paramount to climbing Everest and leaving Sherpa Tensing at base camp. Where on earth did we start to consider moving to and how insane was I to even consider it?
But, I’ve always had a thing about the South Downs. When I was a child my siblings and I would eagerly count down the days until we could pack the car and make the journey to Bracklesham Bay for our two week, bucket and spade holiday. The morning would arrive and pandemonium would entail as my parents struggled to pack their unruly brood of six into the hired minibus. Although well past the age of enjoying being squashed between my sister and a large suitcase, whenever I drive down the A23, I experience the rush of childhood excitement when the Downs come into view.
I had mixed feelings towards our current residential area in South London. When we moved in it was a green and pleasant land. Neighbours spoke to you and the local parade of shops had a greengrocer, butchers and post office. Now, we had a corner shop that sold all, regardless of your age or degree of sobriety; a pub that held late night slanging matches, mud bath level, no ticket required and a special collection of run down billboards where the schoolchildren could check their spellings from the graffiti on display.
I was uneasy that the congestion of London was beginning to spread its fingers out ever further, grasping all that came into its path; the handcuff of the M25 seemed struggling to contain its hunger. It took so long to cross a road, find a parking space or chat to a neighbour that I feared I would be wrinkled and grey before I took the first step. I no longer wanted to see the man across the road choosing his daily wardrobe whilst I was still in my bed, however attractive his underpants were. Claustrophobia was cementing itself in my bones and I felt as though the council’s planning department had a vendetta against my condition.
But like any right minded woman, I wanted it all. I loved that within half an hour of slamming my front door I could be in the heart of the London, sniffing a fix of taxi fumes, watching the eccentric buskers in Convent Garden or pretending to be posh in Fortnum’s. Maybe it was time to realise that I should come clean and rid myself of London’s drug; I could always visit occasionally to get my fix. Besides being able to have a choice of shops to pick up speciality breads and choose your Friday night takeaway, still getting it home piping hot, were not priorities on which to base one’s life.
With a spark of hope that we could break free and make new roots outside London, I decided it was time to test the waters and step out of my comfort zone. We had one year in which we could safely pluck #1 from her school to a Sixth Form College elsewhere, find #2 her secondary school and settle #3 into a Primary, before he understood that he should have complained but didn’t realise he could.
Later that evening with the natives securely settled in their beds - well, the two youngest, #1 being 16, was well past the age when I could tell her what to do, although I did dream sometimes that she was still five and under my control - I sneaked my way past Nick, ensconced on the sofa, to my secret weapon and asked the search engine to do its magic. Perhaps if I had an idea of what was out there to move to, I would be able to make up my mind where to go?
Teresa x
