Transition

This time a week ago, we were tucked into a wonderful – really wonderful – room at the Malmaison in Edinburgh. DorkyDad was using the free WiFi to check his emails; I was chilling out on the massive bed. Our request for breakfast in the room was hanging outside the door.

Our ‘last supper’ that evening had been at Fishers in Leith. DorkySon tasted sticky toffee pudding for the first time in his life. We drank wine, and had a wee wander along the Shore before heading back to our room, which looked out onto the twinkling water. Someone, somewhere, was setting off fireworks.

Earlier that day, a big truck had pulled up outside our house. DorkySon was beside himself with excitement. He said hello and shook hands with Andy, Mickey and Norrie – three perfectly named removal men – before I took him to spend the day down in Portobello with his Granny. I didn’t think he needed to see his life being packed into boxes.

We didn’t need to see that either, really. I distracted myself by making the guys endless cups of tea, and hoovering the empty rooms. DorkyDad and I went to say cheerio to some of the shopkeepers in Marchmont who have become good friends. There was a lot of backslapping and ‘it’s not goodbye, it’s see you later’.

I can’t believe that was only a week ago. Tonight we are sitting in the living room in our new place. I haven’t committed our new address to memory yet, but when I emailed it out to friends I got several replies saying that even Eliza Doolittle would struggle to say it correctly. There are a lot of aitches.

It has been a busy week. Two hotels, two trains, too many taxis to count, DorkySon’s first sighting of a red London bus, several large glasses of wine, and a lot of Peppa Pig videos on the iPad.

Mickey came back tonight – and packed some of our stuff back into the truck. Our table wouldn’t fit through the door of the new flat. Nor would my wardrobe; and there is no room for most of our books. They are going into storage for six months, somewhere near Dartford, until we find our forever house.

This is not a forever house, but it is fine, for now. It is comfy, and cosy. DorkySon has already taken over the hallway with his trucks. We have music in the kitchen; fresh flowers in the window (thanks Mum), and some of our pictures are up on the walls.

A new place always takes time to get used to. I planned today’s activities around a trip to the library, and DorkySon was jumping up and down with excitement at the thought of finding some new truck books. When we got there we discovered that it is, inexplicably, closed on Wednesdays. But instead we went for a walk and found a duck pond, and then a grand wee playground with a pirate ship.

I have been bowled over by the generous welcome of other mums in the area. We only got our internet connected yesterday, and from the one email I sent introducing myself on the local NCT list, I’ve already had a dozen replies with offers of coffee and walks to the park. I got chatting to someone in the queue at WH Smith this morning, and came away with a nursery recommendation.

God knows there have been a couple of wobbly moments. I am trying hard to define this new place by what it is – and the kindness of strangers makes that so much easier, I can’t wait to hear some personal recommendations for places to go – but I have had one or two moments when I’ve only been able to define it by what it’s not. It’s not the house I’m used to. Michael is not my butcher any more, Eddie is not my fishmonger anymore, and after tonight, the removal men are not coming back. It’s not Edinburgh. Not Scotland. And my Mum doesn’t live down the road anymore.

As DorkySon would say, that smells like poo.

But I think if we get some more pictures on the walls, and I reply to all those lovely friendly emails, and we go to the library on Thursday next time instead of Wednesday, we might just be alright here. It’s a big old adventure, and I’m willing to give it a shot.

 

I was planning on having a load of photos to go with this post – I kept my camera away from the removal men, with the intention of documenting our journey – but then I left it switched on all night by accident and ran the battery down before we’d even left the hotel in Edinburgh. I discovered that on the train, just as we were passing Cockenzie and DorkySon jumped up, pointed out the window and said “Look, look, it’s Granny’s ocean!”

That was the first of the wobbly moments. I’m hoping there aren’t too many more to come.

No More Romance on the Railways

woman standing on railway platform

I was so sad to read articles in the Scotsman and Observer this weekend noting that the restaurant cars on East Coast trains have been sent to the great railway heaven in the sky.

I can’t claim to have been a regular of the silver service dining cars – it has been at least three years since I made the journey from Waverley to Kings Cross at all – but I have some wonderful memories of them from the early days of my and DorkyDad’s relationship.

Back in those pre DorkySon days, we sometimes used to trundle down to London for the weekend, and usually tried to time it so that we had lunch on the train. It wasn’t exactly Michelin standard, but there was something very romantic about sitting at a proper table with a white linen tablecloth and silver cutlery, while we sped past fields full of cows and horses.

I was always filled with huge admiration for the staff members, who, despite the shoogling and shaking, managed to delicately transfer bread rolls from basket to plate without dropping them, and pour generous glasses of wine without spilling them.  Oh how they must have laughed at this fine dining novice, the time she knocked a large tumbler of water into DorkyDad’s lap… Continue reading