A Series of Lasts

We have now got to the point where our life has become a Series of Last Things. 
I've had my last pupil's concert, probably had my last soiree. The kids have had their last school holiday and this weekend we had our last Aussie camping trip with my cousin Meg, her husband Chris and their three kidlets.

I am ashamed to say, that after nearly fifteen years here, we have not managed to master the true Aussie art of camping; I don't think we're really cut out for it. For instance, I have heard that other people play a car game: "I went on holiday and I packed my .....". You probably know it - the idea is that you go round the circle and each person adds something to the list and has to remember what has come before. In our family, we play a game called "I went on holiday and I forgot to pack the .....etc etc." 
This holiday was the same as usual. We had to stop en route to buy groceries and the torches we had forgotten to pack, stop again to buy the groceries we forgot to buy. We arrived at the camping site, admirably prepared, or so I thought, with the tent, some food (mostly crisps, cereal and fruit) in a cool box, plates, cutlery and cups, a pan and a frying pan, a table and a camping stove. After all, what more could you possibly need? But Meg and Chris, though they have been in Australia for less time, seem to have adapted better; they had the whole big gazebo strung with lights, the dining-room-table-living-room-suite-and-coffee-table thing going on, though that was nothing compared to most of the tents around us, which looked like soup kitchens for the elite. I always thought that the whole idea of camping was to "get away from it all," but apparently, no, the idea is to "take it all away with you."
Still, in every other way it was the typical and rather wonderful Aussie camping experience. King parrots fighting in the trees as we set up the tents, kookaburras waking us at dawn with their hysterical cackling, having to barricade the food away from the possums, (feeding them chilli sauce seemed to keep them away for one night - inadvertently, I hasten to add) ticks galore, getting bitten by green ants, nearly dying of hypothermia at night, though getting overheated and sweaty during the day. In other words, we had a wonderful time. The kids played endless games of cluedo, we adults drank rather a lot of wine, we feasted on barbecued steak and sausages, bacon and eggs. We sat around the camp fire and played games, sang songs, told stories, read a little, slept a little – a very little – swam in the creek, went walking in the Bush (though I was wearing flip flops, so whilst everyone else charged ahead, I had to do a sort of mincing, crab type walk al the way up Mount Barney and down again, which has left me almost unable to walk.) 
The were only two things that marred the experience. One was that the Big Hairy One was not with us, due to the fact that he was in Mexico at the time, so it didn't feel quite right, in spite of the fact that I knew that if he had been there he would have spent the whole time crouched smelling in his tent, complaining and grunting. 
The other thing was just the simple fact that I felt so sad that we wouldn't be doing this again, and not with Meg and Chris and their children who are so close to ours, though so much younger. How we will do without them all I just don't know.
It wasn't, thankfully, until we left the camp that I read the sheet of RULES we'd been given, which included “ABSOLUTELY NO noise after 9pm,” (whoops), “No unaccompanied children below the age of 15 allowed in the toilet block, (double whoops), no Bad Language, no Spitting, etc etc. For those non Aussies who might possibly be reading this, I would have to say that, in my experience, this is NOT what I would call a typical Aussie camping experience. More like a Nazi camp. Still, we had a lovely time and it is very strange to think that the next time we unpack our tent, we will likely be in the New Forest or Dorset – or by the side of the road, if our house sale doesn't go through.

First Act of Betrayal

Not that I like to me dramatic or anything - anyone who reads my blog, will know that I am never dramatic - but I have just paid the deposit to transport two cats to England and I feel like Judas. I feel as though I have blood on my hands.
Because, you see, there is our third cat, my cat, my baby, who will be staying behind.
Simba is my three legged, 17 year old, depressed Tonkinese cat, who wakes me up several times a night for cuddles, to go outside, to come in again, to retch filthy smelling breath into my face, or just because he feels like it. He is the main reason I have been a zombified mess these last many years. He has cost us an arm and a leg in vets bills, what with tick bites, leg amputation, a magpie attack, cystitis and, now, renal failure that he should have died from two years ago. I have spent many, many hours nursing him, force feeding him, comforting him when his brother died, massaging him when he suffered from phantom pains, cleaning his blood and gunge from the floor and our bed. He poos in the bath, wees on our bathmat, pulls out his fur and leaves it all over the house. 
And, for some, unexplainable reason, I love him. I love his little grouchy brown face, his hop-a-long gait, his skinny, patch-haired body, his knobbly sharp spine.
However, the Gods, (otherwise known as Rupert and the vet) have declared that is is really not worth spending a fortune transporting a cat in his state to England - in fact, the flight alone could be the end of him. So I am farming him out, as though he were nothing but a pet that is no longer wanted. 
Why is it that we feel like this about animals? What biological/evolutionary trait, is it, that makes us humans love something which does not bring us any sort of advantage, that, in fact, cripples us with exhaustion and stress?
I am just hoping that he doesn't feel anything like as strongly for me, that he will forget me as soon as he gets his first piece of cheese from my friend Julia, his soon-to-be-new-Mum.

SOLD!!!

So, a couple of days ago, they came and slapped a great big “SOLD” sign outside our house.

Now, this is the house that we designed ourselves – at least, we paid someone vast amounts of money to design it for us (“Just tell me what you want and I will make sure you get it – unless, of course, it doesn't fit with my vision of Modern Australia – noen of your Middle Eastern Archway rubbish, thank you.”)

Our children have grown up here, changing from sweet toddlers and a baby who spent many a happy hour digging in the back garden, playing endless soccer matches and going on numerous Bear Hunts, to inert creatures who appear to need to be plugged into some form of electronic equipment in order to survive. This house has seen so many parties – children's parties with musical races across the lawn, puppet shows, treasure hunts – Christmas parties with carols round the piano, more puppet shows – soirees with string quartets, oboe quartets, flute quartets, Mendelssohn to jazz to Bach to Celine Dion. We have had game nights which have lasted through the night, cocktail parties, film showings. I have got to know so many of my lovely students here, run my baby music classes, rehearsed for various concerts; we have had countless friends for tea, coffee, barbecues, swimming, curries, of course. This house has been home to four cats, eight chickens, a million guppies, a hundred guinea pigs and my Guinny Pig. We have spent many fruitful and unfruitful hours in the garden, hours painting mosaic tiles on the walls, (more hours cleaning toilets, floors walls, but I won't go into that)

And now, with a single, four letter word, it is all coming to an end.

But the really odd thing, is that, right now, I don't care and I don't know why. Is it just that I have done all my grieving? Am I in denial? Is the worst still to come? I think that it's mainly because there is still sooooo much to do that selling the house is just one thing to cross off the list.

I think I will go and crochet a hat now. I have made eleven so fa

Age, Robbie and Me.

One of the reasons I am finding this move back to the SUK to be fraught with emotion, is the fact that it has brought home to us how quickly life moves on.

Five minutes ago, Rupert and I had only been married for five years and were planning adventures in South America, working with Brazilian street kids. When I found out I was pregnant with our first child, we decided that Australia was probably a safer bet for raising young children – South America could wait for a bit.

Then came the fug of endless sleepless nights, of nappies and feeds and more pregnancies; then came rounds of soccer matches and ballet lessons and play dates and school runs. Next thing we know, we are contemplating returning to England when the kids have all finished school and realise that by that time, Rupert will be 47 and the older two will likely be thoroughly ensconced in Australian life – possibly with kids of their own! So we decided that we need to return to the SUK now, where we will doubtless replicate the endless rounds of soccer matches and ballet lessons and school runs, the “hanging out” dates but please God, no more sleepless nights, pregnancies and nappies.

South America is, I believe, still there, somewhere past the Atlantic, but when we will get to it, heaven knows, what with University fees looming...

Last night did not help to restore any feelings of youth. Last night, I attended my first ever Pop concert. I knew what to expect, of course. Pop concerts are where you go for heaving bodies, strobe lighting, Bad Language, drugs, drink and desperate police, aren't they?

Well, apparently not, not nowadays.

Apparently one drives to Pop concerts, nowadays, in one's shiny four wheel drive, with at least two kiddie's car seats in the back, before joining a decorous queue in the “beer” tent, to order one's Prosecco. When famous pop star appears on stage, he is dressed in tie and tails and goes on to tell stories of his children and his life as a dad and the cameras on either side of the stage, (presumably set up for the nearly-blind-now) focus rather too clearly on the crow's feet around his eyes and mouth. But one is enjoying the music, so one sits back, looks around at the assembled throng and realises that one is surrounded by old people. And then one realises that one is just as old as everybody else!

The one thing that made me feel as though I was at a real Pop concert last night, was the ridiculous volume of the music – though whether that was to instil excitement in the crowd, or whether it was to cater for the hard of hearing, I'm not sure.

Still, it was a good night, and, I might add, the second good night in a row for me, following our sort-of leaving party the night before, in which the consumption of much alcohol followed by much singing, though not much dancing (everybody has bad knees nowadays) had taken place. So there is life in the old bird yet! Now just have to see if I can keep my eyes open long enough to get through tonight's rehearsal...

A House! A House! Australia for a House!

So, Rupert arrived home at 2am yesterday morning, laden with photos of the house that we are buying – that we should own, in sh'allah, by the end of November.

From the photos, it seems that it is almost everything I ever dreamed of in a house – at least, it is if I'm pretending to be a reasonable human being. If I was honest, I would admit to wanting acres of rolling parkland, the sort of house which would demand a butler or two and a team of servants. But I'm not, so I won't. This house is about a quarter of the size of our present house, with a garden a tenth of the size, but it has crooked staircases, perculiarly shaped rooms, cupboards in odd places, and hair. Ever since I was a little girl I've dreamed of having a house with hair.

And though the garden is so small, it is on the edge of a tiny village, within easy walking distance of woods and fields – the best pub in the vicinity is a minute away. It is on a good bus route to all the schools we have lined up and within easyish commuting distance to all the right places. Yes, I am getting excited at last!! Apparently it is very much Tory stomping ground, but I am sure that we can change that.... In fact, I am beginning to think that our presence is very much needed back in the old still-united-kingdom. Having spent a lot of time looking at pictures of house interiors on the net recently, we have noticed a disturbing trend; it seems that a lot of people need to have reminders as to what to do in certain rooms. For instance, many rooms have big letters on the wall “EAT” in the dining rooms, “BATHE,” in the bathrooms, “COOK” in the kitchens, “SLEEP” in the bedrooms. I'm sure people didn't need such instruction when we last lived in the UK 15 years ago – what can I say - our country needs us.

But of course the excitement was bittersweet. At the end of every term for the last few years, I force my pupils to play to each other and then we have a mini-party. Last night was my last pupil's concert.

Though sometimes I wish I didn't have to teach and could devote all my time to my kids/writing/playing - though sometimes my pupils drive me up the wall, I can also say that I am VERY lucky, as I love them all, and their parents, with a passion. I have been teaching many of them for several years now and have seen them grow from stumbling beginners to little people with real music under their fingers. I love chatting to them, listening to their wonderfully imaginative excuses for not having practised, LOVE those moments when I see the spark light and flourish and shine. It breaks my heart to pass them on to other people, to know that I will not be watching over their development any more. It was a good thing I was so tired yesterday – having not had any sleep the night before, due to arrival of husband, I could hardly keep my eyes open and was swaying on my feet – otherwise I would have blubbered all over them, but as it was it took all my concentration to remain standing. I just hope that when they're all famous musicians they remember me and give me free tickets to their concerts!!

Time for a Melt Down

I am beginning to discover that buying a house by remote control is not the least stressful option. After a week of four hours a night sleep and a weekend spent driving children all over Queensland, I found myself at the end of my tether yesterday and was more interested in running away to Peru, sans kids, than in trying to choose our new home via internet.

My sister, Miriam, has been absolutely wonderful, taking photos and video of the houses that she has been to see with Rupert and sending them for me to look at. But of course, even with today's amazing technology, you don't really get the full picture. Sometimes you get more - leading to conversations with one's husband like this, at 7:30 yesterday morning, teenagers champing at the bit beside you, wanting lifts down to the school bus.

“We have to make a decision within the next 24 hours.”

“Well, this new one you've suddenly decided is our dream house - it looks like it's on a very busy street.”

“Oh no, there's hardly any traffic.”

“But the photos make it look like Car City.”

“Oh no, there would only have been three cars there.”

“I counted twelve just in one picture – parked along both sides of the street and on the pavement.”

“Oh. I didn't notice any.”

“And what's the commute like for Sam?”

“Oh it's only five miles to the nearest bus stop for school. He can bike that easily.”

“What's the road like?”

“The road?”

“Yes, the road that he will be biking in the dark at 4pm on a winter's day.” Visions of my Australian son, negotiating winding English roads in the icy winter evenings....

“Oh, I expect it will be fine.”

Convincing much? The trouble is that I haven't had a chance to talk to anyone about all this and don't know if I'm being perfectly reasonable, or whether I'm just too tired and emotional and, sitting looking out at the bright sunshine, the parrots chirruping in the trees, my darling and soon to be ex dog at my feet, I am making mountains out of molehills.

The day didn't get much better. I had someone come to give me a moving quote a couple of hours later – which meant a panic stricken cleaning of the house first, since he had to go into every room, of course and look in all the cupboards. But I did it and I was managing quite well until he asked whether we would be taking the dog kennel with us....

But the poor man was very sweet and understanding. “Let it go, let it go, don't hold it back any more,” he said. Or words to that effect. Then he went on: “Don't worry, you'll adjust soon. The kids will adjust. You don't have high school kids, do you?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do – they're all high school age.”

“Oh, I see, because they're the ones who typically commit suicide after a big move like this. You wouldn't believe the suicide rate.” As he talked I could see the haunted look in his eye – an expression I recognise from my own experience, the “I-can't-believe-I-am-saying-this-but-I-can't-seem-to-stop” look.

Then came teaching, followed by the usual round of driving kids to ballet and shopping and back home because I had forgotten my purse and then out again to soccer and then back to ballet and home and then out to pick up errant son and argue with errant son re what he was prepared to eat, versus what I had prepared for him to eat.

Then, leaving the kids to fend for themselves, out to rehearsal. Back at 10:30, exhausted, to find kids in bed, but food and plates scattered all over the kitchen bench, the table, sink piled high, dishwasher full, chickens waiting to be put to bed, cats who hadn't been fed, husband wanting to skype again on dodgy connection.

Stormed up to bed at midnight, feeling very sorry for myself and wondering what price I could get for the kids if I sold them on ebay and found a tray of chocolate cupcakes on the bed. “Thank you for everything Mum.”

Might keep them for a while yet.

The Proms!!!!!

Last night I was driving Lydia home from ballet when one of the Proms concerts started to air on the radio.

“Oh Lydia, it's the proms!” I said. “Maybe, when we move to England, you'll be able to go to the proms!”

“What's the proms?” She asked so I told her all about it – about that summer's afternoon when we were on holiday in England, many, many years ago and our father announced: “right, everybody, shoes on, go to the toilet and into the car!”

“Why? Where are we going?”

“We're going to a concert.”

“Where?”

“In London.”

Oh.

So we raced into London, miraculously without breaking down, found parking – even more miraculously and probably highly illegally – in Hyde Park and ran to the Albert Hall. But by the time we panted to a stop outside the megalithic stone hall, we were too late.

“There's no more tickets for the arena!” The stewards were shouting.

“Never mind, we'll go in the gallery,” Daddy said and so my first ever Proms concert was sitting on the marble floor of the gallery that runs round the inside of the hall, gazing down, with my myopic eyes, at the fuzzy heads on the stage far far below, the music wafting upwards, a split second behind the bowing and twinkling of fingers. I can't remember what the music was, but I was hooked.

From then on I was a regular at the Proms, sometimes alone, sometimes with my sisters, sometimes with friends we dragged along. We would take the first train to London in the morning, Victoria line from Euston, Piccadilly line from Green Park, run through the tunnel at South Kensington Tube station and up the Brompton road and along Prince Consort, to the steps of the Albert hall – wherein was the queue for the Arena. We would sign our names on the list and then queue all day – though we were allowed off for short periods, to get lunch etc. I would take my violin and busk, either in Kensington Gardens or the the Tube station, always earning back the money I paid for my train ticket and proms ticket and food, plus extra if I was lucky.

And, for the price of two pounds I stood at the feet of Joshua Bell, Midori, Anne Sophie Mutter, Yo-Yo Ma, Dong Su Kang, Alfred Brendel, the best orchestras from around the world.

I told all this to Lydia. I told her about the life long friends we made in the queue; how we would sit and chat in the sun on the steps and play cards and cats cradle, how we would bring instruments and play chamber music; how, one year, we practised for and performed an operetta under the feet of Little Albert on the Last Night of the Proms; how we slept out in sleeping bags on the pavement for a couple of nights to guarantee our places for the Berlin Philharmonic and the Last Night. I told her about the excitement of the doors opening, going inside, buying our tickets and racing, hearts pounding, through the dusty bowels of the Albert Hall, to the arena to bag a decent place on the rail in front of the stage. I told her about the games of Ping pong we in the arena had with the promenaders in the Gallery: “Anyone for a game of tennis?”

“Yeeeeesssss!”

“Ping!”

“Pong!”

And she said: “Gosh, how boring.”