So, around four months ago, I was complaining on here about how life was getting in the way of doing any writing. Our Oxfordshire house purchase was dragging on and I’d been chasing around trying to organise stuff while keeping the kids entertained. We finally got a mortgage approved, school places confirmed, quotes from moving companies, and a phone call from the solicitor to tell us the sellers were ready to exchange contracts. Hurrah! I thought. Then Niall buggered everything up by getting us moved to Houston.
It took a week for his new job to be approved and the move officially confirmed, and two weeks after that we got on a plane.
People’s reactions were generally one of the following:
1. "You’re moving overseas. Won’t your family miss you dreadfully?"
As a serial ex-pat, I get asked this a lot and it’s a tough one to reply to. Option one:
- "Well, yes, I suppose they will. I’d thought about my husband’s career and the opportunity for my kids to experience another culture, but I’d never stopped to consider whether anyone would miss us. Because I’m totally selfish and uncaring."
- "No, I go out of my way to be horrible to my relatives whenever I see them, so I doubt they’ll miss us at all."
(You’d have to ask my family which of the above is closer to the truth. But don’t be surprised if you get nothing but an insulted silence either way.)
2. "An international move? In two weeks? Are you mad/joking/superwoman?"
To which I reply:
- "Wibble./Ha ha!/No, not the Kryptonite!"
I’m not going to lie; it wasn’t entirely stress-free.
Still, here I am in Houston. Waiting for the paperwork to go through for our house purchase and blogging about how real life has been getting in the way of my writing. Jet lag gives way to déjà vu.