Three weeks in...

I can't believe it's now February and that we left London three weeks ago; it already seems as though we've been here forever. For the record, moving to the country in mid-January isn't to be recommended unless you're extremely hearty and just love the cold. I am neither. I spent my first week driving Music Man (MM) to distraction with my incessant whining about the cold, while he gallantly soldiered on, unpacking boxes and ignoring me. I soon was forced to accept that there is quite a lot to do when you've got two children and a house full of Pickfords boxes other than obsess about drafts (although it does still occupy my mind 90% of the time). I was close to tears (of joy) when MM started unpacking a box of clothes which contained a pair of viyella tartan pyjamas I used to wear at university; suddenly going to bed was a pleasure once again (maybe more so for me than for my husband). On a brighter note, I didn't realise what extraordinary pleasure I would gain from opening my bedroom curtains every morning (wrapped up in a dressing gown and uggs on of course) and watching the sun rise over the horizon, transforming the sky into indescribable shades of pink and yellow. And from shutting my curtains at night and bidding farewell to a sky full of stars. Pure unadulterated bliss.

Everyone told me that having children would be the perfect way to meet people and I was fairly cynical; I make friends easily but I am terribly opinionated and struggle massively not to make snap judgments about people. On day one of dropping DD1 at nursery, DD2 and I were almost manhandled by one of the teachers into the weekly playgroup next door. Every instinct said "run" but I forced myself to deposit £1.50 in the tin by the door, plaster a huge smile across my face and go and introduce myself to a group of mothers with similar-aged toddlers. I tried not to let it show how utterly terrified (horrified) I was to find myself in the midst of twenty mummies in a village hall in the middle of nowhere, but lo and behold, before long I found I was actually enjoying myself.

Did I mention that DD1 is due to start school in September? I don't think I did. For anyone who lives in Central London this is a BIG deal. We all put our children down for carefully selected private schools at birth (sadly the alternatives round us were not an option) and we obsessed about whether we had made the right decisions. Moving to the country has changed everything and I am no longer in control. Suddenly I am in the state system (hallelujah, I never actually wanted them to go to a snooty school for rich London kids) but I can't call the shots anymore. We are beholden to catchment areas and selection criteria and have no say in anything. However, that's not the case if it's a church school and therein lies a tale... But more on that next time, my tartan PJs are beckoning, I must hasten to bed!

My world has officially descended into chaos; the removal men have arrived. All around me are boxes, as strangers dismantle my life and carefully pack it into the back of the most enormous lorry I have ever seen. This is suddenly all becoming frighteningly real, we are actually moving to the coast. And leaving London. The man in the corner shop looked astonished when I told him we were leaving this morning, and rather sad. Oh dear. Right, no time for idle chat, the removal men need tea apparently. I know my new role in life...

I left my job today; there's now no going back. This afternoon I found myself sitting in a well-known Mayfair restaurant enjoying a farewell lunch with the founding partners of my firm and seriously began to question my sanity. I'm voluntarily walking away from all this. Hmmm... I turned the lights off in my office this evening, bid everyone a rather phoney, cheery farewell and stepped out into the snow. The waiting taxi whizzed me through the West End, over Chelsea Bridge and before I knew it I was home. For good.


In theory we move house next Friday. I'm somewhat baffled by the fact that after two months of conveyancing we are still waiting to exchange on either property. I have no idea how we are going to pull everything together in the next seven days, but I remain firmly optimistic. I refuse to be defeated by a chain of buyers and sellers, each with their own agenda. Until now I always found it rather melodramatic when people told me that moving house was one of the most stressful events in your life, on a par with death and divorce. I'm slightly dismayed to find that I'm starting to understand why. 


So there we are, tomorrow is the first day of my new life, that of a full-time mummy. And do you know what? I can't wait.

The countdown is beginning...

OMG the countdown is beginning; it’s now less than three weeks till d-day… In twenty one days’ time I will uproot Music Man (my beloved husband), DD1 and DD2, from the comfort of our beautiful south London terraced house to start a new life by the sea, four hours’ drive from everything we know. Who’s idea was this? I have a horrible feeling it was mine.

I’ve spent the last ten years working like a lunatic recruiting bankers in the City, making lots of money and living a wonderfully self-indulgent existence. Having always lived and breathed London life, I suddenly found myself longing for an aga, a vegetable garden and loads of children. I can understand why my mother thought  it was essential to pay for me to visit a shrink last month - I’ve clearly lost the plot.

I’m suddenly finding myself developing a weird desire to go round London on an open-top bus, to go and see a ghastly musical on Shaftesbury Avenue and to watch the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. However, I’m also desperately wondering how I can squeeze in an afternoon at the Bliss Spa on Sloane Avenue, spend a few hours wandering round boutiques in Covent Garden and meet Music Man for blow-out meal in a Michelin starred restaurant. But then again my nails are only going to get chipped when we move, only Geoff Capes would be strong enough to knead out the tension knots in my shoulders right now and my choice of outfit might look slightly out of place by the coast.

The gravity of my situation hit me full on, in the face at speed, last week.  My gorgeous girlfriends took me out for supper and bought me a Cath Kidson tea towel and an Aga cook book as my leaving London presents and I was thrilled. I tried not to cry; there’s no hiding from it, it’s time to embrace the new me…