Moving Pictures

Today I moved to Bromley.  I now have an actual address, and have registered to vote.  It's a shared house but it's still an actual home, as opposed to an AirBnB, which is only one step up from being homeless.  It's been quite a tough three months.  Now I can settle a bit, save some money, and work out a plan. 

This morning as I was packing, I realised I had about a third of a bottle of wine hanging about, so I drank it.  I've never, ever drunk in the morning before so it felt daring and a little bit degenerate.  It was fine and had worn off by the time I handed over my keys.  It will be our secret. 

I had a brief love affair with Croydon in the six weeks I was there.  It was time to move on.  I'll take with me lots of mental images:  the butchers where they only play Bob Marley; the jewellery shop that sells functioning gold dummies; the market that has been setting out stalls since 1276; the slightly feral edge to the town on Friday and Saturday nights; and Boxpark, which is probably a sign of the apocalypse. 

Apparently it is possible to live with uncertainty and insecurity.  It's not fun, but it's possible.  Next week I have an interview for the job I have been doing as a temp the last two months.  Quite a lot rides on that.  If I do not get it I will have to reassess my situation quite sharply.

Goldilocks and the Three Shares

Too hot.  Too salty.  And so on.  Actually it's technically four shares but more of that later.

First of all, I'd like to take issue with myself.  In my last post I said If I were a lesser person, my confidence would have taken a huge knock.  Which sounds like I think I'm a greater person.  I'm not.  I suspect that what I meant was: if I were the person I was a few months ago, in simpler times, my confidence would have taken a huge knock.  I've had to become tough and resilient in ways I could not imagine possible.  I've had to learn to poo in a variety of homes that aren't mine.  I've had to learn that if someone is an arse to me at work, that is just because they are an arse and it does not have to spoil my day.

So, the three shares:

First of all I was in an AirBnB in Stoke Newington (Stamford Hill really, but that doesn't sound anywhere near as cool.)  I would probably have stayed there as the live-in host was a nice lady and her cat was lovely.  But she had other guests coming so...

I moved to an AirBnB in Beckton.  Too hot.  Too salty.  Sorry, I meant too many fucking aeroplanes and too far from everything.  And the live-in host was kind but really weirdly over-sharing.  So...

I moved back to Stoke Newington, this time to share with a mate for a few weeks.  I loved the area.  I was opposite my favourite cafe!  My friend was very kind and generous but the broken flat door and the broken internet finally broke me.  I started feeling very miserable.

So now I'm in Croydon, for my sins.  I feel it is obligatory to say "for my sins" after saying I'm living in Croydon.  Another AirBnB.  Live-in host seems very nice.  I shall go out exploring tomorrow.

It will be easier to get to work from here, and I have a feeling I'll end up living round here somewhere as it's relatively cheap.

Working Girl

I've not written anything much in the last month except lists of things that need sorting out.

After about 12 or 13 interviews I was offered a three-month booking in a large urban university just south of the river.  This was such a relief I did not stop to think that it might actually be a really shit job and, let's face it, I really needed the money.  Not for the best part of 40 years have I had a boss who looks at me with such blank-faced contempt.  He laughs and jokes with others and can barely take the time of day to answer my questions.  Any information he gives seems to be totally arbitrary, so I cannot take it as read that it will apply next time. 

If I were a lesser person, my confidence would have taken a huge knock.  My questions are treated as annoyances, my abilities and my experience are challenged, my very words are undermined as I speak them.  This man is an utter cunting tosser.  But it's three months, and I can do it.

The question is, what happens after that.  Permanent work is needed and apparently the reliable winning streak I had for getting jobs has ended.  It has to be faced: I am old, and younger candidates with their still-wet degrees and their poor grammar and tendency to sit and use their phones all the fucking time are a better bet than me, it seems.

But I'm not bitter.  I'm just really angry.  Angry old women are dangerous.

Catch of the Day

One thing I predicted correctly: that I would be running about all over London, sweatily, in August, looking for work.  Today it was Finchley to Tooting, some 18 miles apart and, fortunately, joined by the long black leg of the Northern line.  I wish I could tell you everything is working out OK.  At the moment, I have no idea what is happening, where I'll be next week, or what I'll be doing.  I have not had this level of uncertainty in my life for decades.

There have been four agency interviews and two actual job interviews in the last two weeks.  Once upon a time you turned up at a temp agency, flailed away at a keyboard for a bit, and then they sent you to a job.  Now, it's pretty much like going for a real job in that you have to be shortlisted and interviewed by the employer, even for a two-month booking.  Today I had what seemed like a very positive interview for a six-month booking.  I can no longer tell if I've done well at interviews.  The agencies, on the whole, seem very keen to place me somewhere and think I have a great CV.  But it's like someone telling you what a great catch you are, and yet somehow you never end up in a net. 

Still, I am pleased to be back in London.  Brussels, for reasons I cannot explain, never felt safe.  Here, I can happily stand in Holborn at night, waiting for a bus to take me to the northern reaches of the city, and it just feels like home.  This huge, unwieldy, messy city is where my roots are deep.  London is my universe.

Java Jive

This morning, I woke at 5.29 and watched the sun rise over Upminster.  From the eighth floor of a block in North London, London is huge, its villages mapped out in spires and council blocks.

I don't know what the fuck I'm doing yet, but I have various balls in the air.  Juggling has never been my strength, so something might get dropped.  Life hangs currently on small things:  finding excellent coffee shops and charity shops, Noodle the bonkers cat who lives here, seeing old friends, doing insane new stuff like stand-up comedy.

If there was any doubt that returning to London was the right thing, that doubt no longer exists.  Despite my fears about what the political climate would be like (mainly due to a shameful habit of reading the Mail online), people of all races, faiths, languages, genders, appear to be living and working alongside each other, just as they have for a long time in London.  This is my genetic and ancestral home.  As much as some feel that London is too much and alien, for me it's an embrace.

Not much else to say right now, but I'm sure things will be happening soon.

One Down, One Across

I had a couple of bits of business this morning, so took advantage of being out to go to Exki in Place Lux.  Had a half-pint of coffee (what a luxury it is when you have none at home, nor the wherewithal to make it) and something moist and chocolaty.  Made a pig's bollock of the New York Times crossword.  It wasn't even a cryptic one; I'm just shit at crosswords. 

I realised, having transacted the final bit of business, that I was on the very same corner on which I stood almost eight years ago, on my first ever day in Brussels.  It was for an interview (for a job I'm pleased not to have got) and, as I'd made a day trip from London, I combined it with two internet dates.  First date picked me up on the corner of Place Lux, right by the bank.  Yes, I got in a car with a strange man and he gave me sweeties. 

Tonight I will dine out as everything is packed and anyway I can't mess up the oven.  Everything hurts - all the arthritis seems to be shouting just fucking stop.  But I can't yet.  Thankfully the list of things to do is mercifully short now.  Just as well - tomorrow morning at 8am, the men will be here, and then I'm on a train under the Channel.  See you on the other side.   

Post-Impressions on a Hot Day

I've hit the Van Gogh stage now.  I remember this from last time.  Basically all I have left is a bed and two chairs.  Oh and a computer.  I'm sure Vincent would have had a computer.  He'd be on Facebook all the time arguing with tossers, and posting cat videos. 

It is one week today, my departure, and the terror does not subside. The only thing is, in this heat (today was around 40 °C and tomorrow likely higher) it is hard enough getting through the day, so the terror becomes a sort of subsidiary theme.  It feels like something you've forgotten to do.  Of course, I may well have forgotten to do something.  At least the extreme heat gives me an excuse to stay in tomorrow and go slowly through my undone tasks.  I will be mainly naked and sitting next to a fan.  

This week, my friend S was so amazing I cried.  I asked if she would help me take stuff to the dump, and move boxes down to the garage.  The dump was great fun, hurling stuff into a massive skip.  But the boxes:  it seemed I just could not go down the stairs with them.  Just after I moved here I fell going down the stairs, carrying a box.  Missed my footing and went down very hard on both knees and one elbow.  Fortunately nothing was broken.  But now, standing there with a box, I froze.  So S said I should just get them to the top of the stairs and she would do it.  All 25 boxes, carried down and stacked in the garage.  She was like a superwoman!  So grateful to her.

You Want That To Go?

What does a sensible person (who has packed her cafetière and has no coffee) do on a hot day?  Why, she goes to a dim, air-conditioned Starbucks, and orders the smallest fuck-off huge mug of Americano they have, along with a big cookie.

I cannot tell you how comforting this was.  OK, so I was in the bowels of Schuman metro.  Let's ignore that.  I have exactly two weeks to get everything done and - while I do not doubt I will manage it - the sensation of absolute terror about a millimetre below my surface remains.  It shrieks.  Dogs prick up their ears.  I am terrified about this move.  Globalisation has come to my rescue.  A Starbucks coffee is the same everywhere and so I sat on a very low armchair with a dubious arse stain while Dolly Parton keened about something in the background, and I necked a half a pint of coffee.

A woman who knew the serving staff laughed too much, for way too long.

I have about 35 boxes packed and two items of furniture remain to be disposed of.  Today I was whipping cobwebs off the ceiling with a towel. I fear some sort of hysteria might have taken hold.

  

Order, Order

My phone, which is on the way to being wholly fucked, keeps chirruping like a hungry bird.  The battery disconnects while charging, approximately every ten seconds, hence the hungry chirrup.  I hope it will hold out until the UK as there simply isn't time to get a new phone.

I have, I think, packed 25 boxes.  You would not think it to look around the place, but it is some comfort to know I've probably got only another ten to do.  The calendar is against me as there is a sinus operation (minor) booked for 17 July and after that I'll be unable to lift things for a while.  And then to Paris to see my new grandson.  To say that his birth has brought light into my heart is an understatement.  The longing to hold him and be part of his life is stronger than ever I could have thought. 

My daughter had a horribly long, horribly painful labour and I am so proud of her, and relieved that all is well.   Childbirth is an everyday thing but when it is your own flesh going through it, it doesn't seem like that. 

The only other news is that I did not get the job I went for.  This knocked me on my arse a bit.  Well, really quite a lot.  I will get something, but to be turned down by the place I really wanted to work is very sobering.

Packing beckons.  It doesn't really, but putting things mindlessly in boxes is surprisingly calming.  Order from disorder.  Order from ordure.

Going Back

To York, for a job interview.  Three of the four trains I took, I was facing backwards.  This is what comes of booking train tickets in a state of high excitement, and at the last minute.  I plunged into a Kate Atkinson and tried to ignore the fact that I appeared to be reversing into my own future.

If someone asked me to design the city I want to live in, and the job I want, at the place I want, I would come up with this job, at this place, in York.  So, half an hour early for my interview, I sat in the beautiful campus gardens, my arms buzzing with adrenaline.  Normal language seems to desert me during interviews, therefore I'm sure I talked a lot of shit.  I have absolutely no idea whether it was a good interview.  All three on the panel kept nodding, but that might have meant, "Yep, yep, call security."

I met the Vice-Chancellor and the thing she was most interested in was that I had worked for Sir Howard Davies.  And then we talked about student satisfaction.  Oh shut up.

I have heard nothing yet, which makes me sad.  And yes, that is stupidly impatient, seeing as it's been only a day.  If I have not got the job, that's ok.  This is just the beginning.

The Last Chicken

A large part of my job was ensuring that students didn't escape during the day without permission, so it was kind of ironic that on my final day I couldn't get off campus.  Having said many goodbyes over the last week, in my final hour I was pretty much alone.  The odd IT person (not a slur) was wandering about and the support staff, but apart from that, there was nobody there but this chicken.

As I was carrying quite a bit of stuff (I haven't plundered all the stationery, it was just my own shit) I thought I'd get a taxi home the last day, leaving like someone in Eastenders.  But there was nobody in the Chateau to order one for me.  I walked down the hill and - because I no longer had my security badge - was unable to open the electric gates.  Neither was there a guard on the gate.  Neither was the intercom working.  Swearing quietly but effectively to myself, I called them on my mobile and was advised to wait. So I waited.  I waited.  Finally my favourite guard came to let me out and that was me gone.

I then called a taxi and he sang to me all the way home, mainly Prince and Bob Marley. 

Dive Dive Dive

I am beginning, imperceptibly, to get into the tuck position necessary for my spectacular dive.  What that actually means is: desultorily packing the odd box, drinking too much wine, and feeling the edge of coming terror.

Friday was the work picnic, which was mainly Prosecco.  We had it on the all-weather track-and-field field and it was startlingly hot.  That shouldn't be a surprise, but it had been pissing down cold hard rain most of the week.  There were small children splashing and drinking the rainwater in the tarpaulin over the long-jump.  Dogs likewise.  I think I managed to get drunk and not offend anyone, which is always good.

After that I took round to my colleague her laptop, as she's been sick for some days.  Due to her neighbouring-proximity we have become sort of friends.  Perhaps if I'd stayed we would have become good chums.  She was much perkier and we shared a bottle of wine in her startlingly hot garden.  I attacked kalamata olives with gusto while she told me unrepeatable stories.  I know there is probably an elegant way to eat olives, but I nibble all the flesh off, because I'm common.

Having spotted a job I really want, in the place I really want, I'm now getting the fear.  What if I get it?  What if I don't?  What if I don't even get an interview?  What if I'm actually shit?  Last night I had a nightmare about the one essential part of the job in which I have no experience. 

There is something about condensing your entire work experience into something punchy, sexy, and marketable that makes me want to remove my spleen with a spoon.

Bearing Up

So, we had our own Writers' Retreat. 

S, L and I went east to Limburg province and had a wonderful weekend at the home of S's lovely parents.  We drank wine way too early, were probably way too loud, and wrote very little.  I did find it amusing that around midnight one night we were all drinking water, given that we were apparently such a dreadfully bad lot.  Even reprobates need water occasionally.  (I should not really include L in our bad-lottery.  She has only been tainted by association).

Today is 49 days until I leave.  All the sevens. 

It's far less until I leave work - just over two weeks.  I keep telling my colleagues I'm leaving and they don't seem to believe it.  It will only be when I remove the three stuffed bears, the tampons, the cutlery, and the large lump of patafix from my desk that they might really get it.  In the meantime I'm still putting out small fires and preventing others from starting by peeing on them.  The fires, not my colleagues.

Every time someone asks me if I have a job to go to, I get this slightly hysterical bubble in my stomach.  I think part of me is actually enjoying this walking off into apparent oblivion. 

A Bit of a Spot

I hate to add another layer to how much I feel like a failure but: circumstance has brought to a head a suppurating pimple that I didn't even know existed.

I have been quite happily a part of a lovely writing group for more than three years.  I had signed up for the fourth Writer's Retreat and was looking forward to it.  I thought that these people were friends, and that they were the group of people in Belgium with whom I felt most sympathy.  I felt valued and liked.   I had never had reason to think otherwise.  Every weekly meeting, every event, every social event outside of that, every Writers' Retreat only served to prove that these were my people.

Having registered and paid up for the Retreat this year, I noticed that a message was posted publicly to those who were attending.  'Last year we had the situation that people felt very uncomfortable and also offended by behaviour of members who drank too much.'  

My friend S and I had taken boxes of wine to last year's Retreat, to share with others, as we always did.  We enjoy a drink and enjoy sharing.  I do not remember any offence, or discomfort, or any "behaviour" being mentioned.  People had a drink and a laugh and went to bed.  S and I probably drank more than others.  If this was a problem, the organisers had a year to talk to us about it, and ideally before we paid up for this year.  They did not do this. 

Apparently, the issue of alcohol has been much discussed since last Retreat.  But nothing was communicated to us, apart from the admonition to be "reasonable".  I always think I'm reasonable.  I think taking some booze and snacks to a four day event for people to share is reasonable.  I think letting other people do their own thing is reasonable.  I think discussing issues like this before people pay 150 fucking Euros is reasonable.

I responded to the message and was met with what could only be described as a vomit of anger from one of the organisers.

We have not had our money refunded, but I'm working on it.

Whatever happens, this is not a nice way to leave.  These are not fond memories.

Seven Swans A-Swimming

There is an eerie calm here which, to the untrained eye, might be mistaken for a lack of arsedness.

Beneath this thin veneer of calm, swan-feet are churning. 

On my way home from work I stopped for a good few minutes to watch the swans on the lake with their seven beautiful fluffy babies.  They were protective and nonchalant in elegant swan-style, and gently but firmly saw off some curious mallards.  I imagine cygnets have quite a high survival rate because frankly, who is going to mess with a fucking swan?

But I'm not really like that.  I'm more Maria from the Abbey spluttering "SEVEN CHILDREN?"  Mind you she did get to marry Christopher Plummer, which must have eased the horror, somewhat.

Tomorrow, my friend and colleague J (one and the same person) will come to meet my landlord.  Presumably to see if he's suitable and not a serial-killer.  I don't think he's a serial-killer.  He's kept it quiet if he is.  If he passes the serial-killer test, he can have the apartment.  And whatever furniture he wants.  Frankly at this point I would give away all my worldly goods, bar a few items of clothing.

I have a longing to be in England, but I suspect it's an England that doesn't exist any more.  England is mainly the amphibian Nigel Farage at the moment, with a sprinkling of Boris, and a chaser of Rees-Mogg.  Cunts, the lot of them.  Still, I really need to go home.

Catatonic

I've been having a bit of a funny few days.  Re-homing Luna broke me a tiny bit and I went into suspension.  This was unexpected.  Most change is met with, if not resilience, then a sort of vague greyish resignation.  Letting go of a cat I was never particularly fond of has been surprisingly hard.  I have dreamed, maybe hoped, that she would walk back the 8km from Uccle and we could have a syrupy Disney reunion. 

This would actually not be ideal, as I'd then have to work out what to do with her again.  But I really fucking miss her.  She was loud, often a bit psychopathic, but she was my spiky little companion these last four years.  Often she would lay along my side, with her face as close to mine as possible, purring.  We spoke to each other.  I have no idea what she was saying.  "Take me to Uccle, you bitch," possibly.

Her new slave has sent me a photo of her curled up asleep on his lap, so I know she's fine. 

Today I am preparing to get ready for Prom for the first and likely only time in my life.  I have a sort of Grecian goddess dress in cobalt blue which nicely skims over the fat bits, and I'll wear a sparkly necklace.  Talking of dresses, has everyone got much taller suddenly?  I have to cut four inches off the bottom of this frock in order not to go arse over tit while walking.  A bunch of us are going as chaperones to the seniors but, I suspect, we are just going to eat a lot and get riotously pissed.  That's English pissed, not American. 

I will attempt to leave before midnight, not because of the risk of turning back into a scullery-maid, but because some of the late trains terminate at Delta.  Which isn't a sorority house, but a station far too far from which to stagger in evening wear.

Sheer Lunacy

Yesterday, the vet came round to give Luna a long (like 12 years) overdue  immunisation and the idea was to give her a general check-up, prior to her rehoming.  At first Luna did her appealing, slightly-slutty-with-visitors routine and even sat on the vet's lap.  You would think he might know better than to trust this.  When he tried to look at her teeth or examine her, she turned into a large,very sharp eel.

We still had to give her the shot.  I say we.  It was more him really.  After Luna drew blood from the vet (he really should have known better), I volunteered my gardening gloves.  With one glove apiece, and a large towel, we got the squirming muscular mass of claws in a corner and in two attempts, gave her about three-quarters of the shot.  "Well, as you see, she's very strong for her age," I said, after apologising for the bloodshed.

She is currently having her last troll in the garden and I'm washing out her litter tray.  If all goes to plan (all being a rather sinister drugging and then shoving her in the basket), we'll be on the move before 7pm.  As with most things at the moment, I won't believe it till it happens.  She's got about half an hour until I trick her with some cream and a cat tranquiliser.  I have my gardening gloves at the ready.  I'm going to miss her.

Fulcrum

It feels like I'm on the balancing point between doing fuck-all and actually getting something substantial done.  Sure, I've got rid of some chairs, a fridge, a wardrobe, two nesting tables, and other sundry items  But there is nothing about the apartment that says "this woman is leaving" yet.  Apart from the many dresses that have died on the end of my bed because no wardrobe.

This coming week, both my cat and my apartment could be spoken for.  I'm not going to preempt disaster by believing either of these things could actually happen.  But I have someone who seriously wants to take my cat, and someone who seriously wants to take my apartment.  It would be too much to hope that the Universe would grant me both in the same week.  Actually the Universe probably doesn't give a furry fuck.

In every conversation I have at the moment, at some point I fix people with an unholy glare and ask if they need any furniture.  The amount of furniture I still have to dispose of is terrifying.  Whenever anyone comes to buy or take something from me I ask sweetly if they need anything else.  JUST TAKE MY STUFF GODDAMNIT.

I have 73 days.  It's good.  I'm fine.

How do you solve a problem like IKEA?

After removing 22 nails from the back of the wardrobe, the rest was easy.  I say easy - all the bits are still resting in various awkward knitwear poses in my bedroom, waiting to be wiped down and taken to the garage.  22 fucking nails.  That's some kind of Swedish sadism.  I had to crack the heads off them and ease the hardboard back away.  You don't need skill for that, just terrier-like doggedness.  And a big screwdriver.

I may have a home for Luna.  I don't want to be too optimistic in case it goes tits up but by next week she could be in her new home.  I haven't told her yet.  She's a cat, she won't understand.  At some point I may have to drug her into the cat basket.  I'll think about that tomorrow, like Scarlett O'Hara.

I've been thinking about the weird things I'll miss when I no longer live in Belgium.  There are not many. 

1.  Normalement.  This doesn't mean "normally".  It means "hopefully", "probably", "well, that's what you might expect, all things being equal", or "if the Gods are willing".  It's an expression of slightly hesitant optimism rather than an explanation of what usually happens.

2. Describing time by the 24 hour clock, i.e., "I could meet you at 15."  This makes perfect sense to a European.

3. The 13th month payment.  We get two paydays in December.  Happy Christmas!

4.  Days off in the middle of the week for things like Jesus or his mum going to Heaven.

I think that's everything.  Soon, I will be voting for the first time as a Belgian national.  I have no idea what to do, but it's mandatory, so I'd better work it out.  I'll take my screwdriver.

Bearing Down

I have to start taking my wardrobe apart tonight.  That might be the most singularly boring thing I've ever written.  A chap is coming for it on Thursday and I don't trust myself to manage the demounting all in one evening.  It was a fucker to put together and no doubt it will be a reverse fucker to take apart.

I have to find some logical thing to decant my clothes into.  I suspect this will be a sophisticated system of identical cardboard boxes.  Fortunately nothing much requires ironing (even more so as I got rid of the iron).  My usual look is "got dressed in Oxfam at night", so that's OK.

If I were a hibernating bear (or an estivating one, who had got the sleep thing arse about face), or a rich person who had people do everything for her, I could wake up one day to find I was neatly in London.  There will be nothing neat about this transition.  This is going to be a big bundle of fuck.

I am tempted to just make a bonfire in the back yard and burn everything.  This is possibly against local by-laws, but I could claim insanity.  A jury of my peers, etc.

Sadness

It's been a difficult week one way and another, and today we lost a student in very tragic circumstances.  It's not my tragedy, and I feel uncomfortable saying too much about it, but in a small community such as a school, everyone is affected; everyone is drawn together by it.  Fortunately we had two empty offices today so we worked a sort of triage system for the students most in need of support.  I suspect the ripples of this event will continue for some time, and the sadness of a life ended so young will be something we all think about a lot.

I don't have anything very wise to say about it.  It's just a really awful thing, and I feel very much for the girl's family and friends.

Illusion and Delusion

You know when you absolutely pull off a blinder at work, organising single-handedly a massive European universities fair that is deemed to be a triumph, and at the end of a thirteen hour day you think "ooh maybe I am good at this and should stay"?  Well that's an illusion.  Tomorrow it will be back to relentless pooh.  I said to my boss that he could now write me an absolutely fantastic reference.

Having fed about 70 of the 100 university reps and then slung them out, with the elegance and aggression of an East-end pub landlady, I found one standing forlornly in the Chateau car park.  He looked like he might be eaten by wolves so I went over to see if he was okay.  He had already tried my patience earlier by having not asked me to order a taxi in advance and I gave him someone else's, because she had over-ordered and got herself an Uber.  Clearly someone had then nicked his taxi.

He sorted out one for himself and we walked down the dark, leafy hill together so I could let him out the electronic school gates.  We chatted amiably about Brussels.  "You have a lovely..." he began warmly, and in that moment, one felt that anything might happen.  In infinite parallel universes, indeed it might.  "...campus," he said.   Even at my advanced age, we still have the odd delusion.

Continuing Bravely

I've done some daft things in my time, but last night I didn't lock my apartment door.  In theory, it would have been possible for anyone to walk in, divest me of my shabby worldly goods, perhaps divest me personally of whatever they saw fit, and then leave.  There is a street door but that sometimes doesn't shut properly.

I think it's symptomatic of this low-level shriek of panic which accompanies me at all times.  I keep typing completely the wrong words, all the time.  The other day I was trying to remember when I got rid of my clothes-horse because I couldn't remember.  It's down in the garage with my washing drying on it.  I'm either going seriously bonkers or this is just to be expected at the uprooting of an uprooted life and the attempt to re-pot it somewhere unknown.

While I was cleaning something in my garage yesterday, the landlady turned up.  I do myself no favours because my written French isn't bad, therefore she thinks (from my emails) that I'm fluent.  She went on and on, and I interjected the odd thing.  I sort of gave up when she began talking about Churchill and De Gaulle because I have nothing worthy to say about them, in any language.

She was asking what I would be doing and where, after I left in July, and we concluded that it was tous inconnus.  Somehow it sounds a bit more exciting and adventurous in French.  Une aventure. Un nouveau chapitre, I continued bravely.

87 days.

Bean and Going

I emailed the entire school faculty and staff with a winsome picture of my cat, asking if anyone could offer her a home.  It was my very subtle way of telling them all that I'm leaving.  I guess I still have to come at least twenty conversations about why.  One teacher asked me why I was going and I barked BECAUSE I CAN'T STAND WORKING WITH YOU ANY MORE.  I think he knew I was joking.

Another colleague came and asked if I'd had any interest in my pussy yet.  I laughed so hard I think my pelvic floor fell out.

I had my exit interview today with the Director.  He has a good way of putting you at ease so that you spill beans.  I was very guarded with my beans but I dropped one or two.  The beans I spilled did not surprise him.  Which makes me wonder why, if such beans have been bandied about before, why has nothing been done to staunch this steady spillage of haricots. 

I managed to mention the lack of Evacuation Chairs in the High School too.  I didn't mean to.  It just happened. 

Working It

I have never been a great one for networking.  It comes about as naturally to me as Olympic level gymnastics.  My instinct in a room full of people is either to take up residence cross-legged on the sofa with a bottle of rosé wine at my elbow, and wait for people to circulate, or stand in the kitchen by the drinks.  It's a kind of passive, random socialising.  It reminds me of Forrest Gump sitting on that bus stop bench, with a variety of people passing through his narrative.

A few months ago at work we had a visit from a representative of a university where I would really, really like to work.  For once I didn't stand in the kitchen. I was all helpful, and gave him a sort of cross-section of me being casually ace.  It wasn't totally calculated as I had not at that point definitely decided to leave.  OK, it was a bit calculated.

One of my colleagues used to work with him and she messaged him last night about my return to the UK.  He said he would be more than happy to try and help me, so I emailed him today.  It is by no means an offer of work, but it's a very good connection to have, in the place I would like to be working.  

And a friend has given me details of a temp agency in London that deals almost solely with universities.  Things are tentatively, gently, almost starting to be in a position where they might possibly fall into place.

Now, if you will excuse me, I have a fridge to move.

Century City

Today, it is exactly 100 days until my departure.

Bits of furniture are falling away, by way of Facebook and Freecycle.  The big items I've yet to list as I'd forgotten how fucking tiresome the whole process is.  And how easy it is to fuck up and give the wrong person the wrong item.  Still, there is nothing nicer than seeing things go to a good home.  OK, so maybe they flog my stuff on Ebay.  I'm not really that bothered.

July, waiting out there like a glittering bit of glass in the sun, is going to be a huge month.  Within the space of about two weeks I will become a grandmother; go to visit my daughter, her partner, and my GRANDSON in Paris; come back and have my fourth sinus operation (we're going to need a bigger hole); then finish everything here and leave Belgium.

The city itself, I will not miss.  I'm waiting for some premature nostalgia to kick in and it isn't.  The yellow, orange and shit brown of the metro will haunt my dreams for years.

But I've met some lovely, lovely people here and it's possible I won't see them again for a very long time.  When one day I am relatively settled, or just in a Wetherspoons with a massive glass of cheap wine in front of me, I will be able to reflect on the last seven years.  At the moment I'm just throwing ballast out in an effort to stay airborne.

Stop! Watch...

The timer is on.  I've started vaguely doing things.  I've given them a heads up at work that I'll be going, I've given my landlord a heads up.  I've started the process of reactivating my UK bank account, which has the princely sum of £1.95 in it.  Actually I'm surprised it's that much.  I've got a quote for moving and when my mover can stop fucking moving other people for five seconds and confirm my booking, I will feel a lot happier.  I have got boxes and bubble wrap.

Yet still nothing much feels different.  There is a feeling of seismic change coming but much in the way that the San Andreas Fault has been set for the Big One for as long as I can remember, it's still out there somewhere, not quite happening yet.

I keep thinking about August in London.  There's a montage running in my head of me sitting under a shady tree on Hampstead Heath, necking cold wine and just seeping tears of bliss.  Or walking down the South Bank with a dreamy smile.  Or just holding my friends and slobbering on them.  All very Richard Curtis.

The reality will be me rushing about sweatily looking for temp jobs, trying to convince people who don't even need moisturiser yet that this 57 year old fat bitch is exactly what they need right now.  I will probably have a panic attack when I realise I can't remember my way around London.  And as for drinking wine on the Heath, hell no.  I'll just want a piss and get anxious about leaving my stuff for a few minutes to find somewhere and when I do I will pee all down my leggings accidentally.

Apparently Nothin'

So there are sixteen weeks until I leave.  Have I done anything?  No.  I think when you are on the carousel of work, you just don't get off it long enough to think straight, and when you do, you are dizzy and wanting wine, distraction, crappy Netflix films, documentaries about Anne Boleyn, and oblivion.  But sixteen weeks.  It's nothing is it.  And there ain't gonna be fucking Disney birds with ribbons helping me.

I need to kickstart something and the best way is probably selling something vital or actually telling my boss I'm leaving.  It's finding the words.  I guess I'll say I just want to go home.  Not "This job is relentless, and killing me cell by cell and why do you go home two fucking hours before me?"  Not that.  I'll just say I need to go home.

I think I'm going to sell my table.  It's a fantastic table.  It's a table that had dreams of being big one day.  In reality it just held a bunch of my shit, and hardly hosted anyone.  I guess that's my fault for being a curmudgeon. I feel like a failure that I never had a lot of people round this table and fulfilled its purpose.  I often feel like a failure, but I must put that aside.  There is a whole life to remake back in the UK and thinking of how I failed is not going to help.

I remember when I came here, I simply refused to have a Plan B. 

So there's no Plan B, part II.

Nexit

Today is the exit day that was not.  The UK Government has been given 11 further days to come up with a cunning plan to avoid crashing out of the EU on 12 April.  Given that in the previous 1008 days, 23 hours and 35 minutes, the Government has come up with fuck all, I don't have much confidence.

Incidentally, I know the man who coined the term "Brexit".  This is one of my very few claims to fame.

In more parochial news, it is a little over four months until my departure.  This knowledge should create some urgency but I've done nothing so far.  In my head things are moving around, like a very cumbersome Rubik's Cube.

Somewhat impulsively, I've decided to do some stand-up comedy, on the day after I arrive back in the UK.  My friend P runs comedy nights and what better way to celebrate my re-entry into the UK than by humiliating myself publicly, in a pub?

I used to be good at parallel parking, reversing neatly into a spot with ease.  It feels like that is what I'm trying to do, except I don't really have anywhere to reverse into or, indeed, a car.

Chips With Everything

I am old. I am so fucking old. Last Friday I turned 57. Fifty-fucking-seven. Nobody wants to be fifty-fucking-seven, except that the alternative doesn't sound like much fun. So there we go. As I was walking up the hill (listening coincidentally to Running Up That Hill by Kate Bush) into work on Friday, I realised it was ten years to the day that I will be of pensionable age in the UK.

How did that happen? In my head I'm still a vaguely youthful 30-something, with a waist, and enough slightly slutty beauty to turn heads.

I should not complain too much. I celebrated my birthday with a young man (no, not like that) who bought me dinner and then took me to a casino.

They say every seven years, the cells in your body are completely replaced. Which means that the person who came to Belgium in 2012 no longer exists. Of course, I still do sort of exist, but the replacement cells are all a bit droopier, with only a homeopathic memory of what my face and figure should look like.

But this bunch of newly-minted saggy cells can still have a good time. I have no idea if I won anything at the casino because I was really quite bloody drunk (thanks to some industrial strength margaritas at the restaurant). But I was happy, and safe, and with someone nice. It was a good birthday.

A Nose For It

The interminable saga of my sinuses continues. 

I went back to see my surgeon this morning.  I find going to the ORL (ENT in French) department very stressful.  Even though I knew I had an appointment, I was convinced I'd been forgotten.  Well, I wasn't seen until an hour after my appointment time, so this was entirely possible.  Apparently he'd had to fit in some emergencies.

We looked at my scan.  Seeing my skull on a screen is always sobering. It's like looking at yourself dead.  One side was good, one side not good.  I still have blockages all above my right eye.  So I have to go back in for an intervention.  It's day surgery but not a full on operation that leaves you with bruises on your shoulder (no idea what happened there).  He said it's more like a revision.  I just want it done.  This has been going on for five years.  I want sinuses that do what they are supposed to do.  I have spent far too much time in hospitals since I've been here.

Work is sucking donkey balls too.  I feel like I have been trying to catch up since my hospitalisation in January and it's fucking March now.  But the main donkey-ballness is the lack of joined-up thinking and action in the place.  I found an email from a year ago when I was still full of righteous anger and energy and wanted to change things and...now I couldn't give a furry fuck.  The various parts of the organisation are so disconnected that it's not worth the fur or the fuck.  I'm out of energy. 

On the plus side, I've found out what to do with my cobwebs.  My dear friend T wants them.  So I'll be sending them to her along with some used coffee-stirrers for use in her beautiful dioramas.

Hot or Not

Since Thursday, when I came home from a scan at Saint Luc Hospital, I've had a fever.  We English people don't say that.  We say "I'm running a temperature". I can't say that any more.  I've become too foreignised.  I suppose it's like the way the rest of the world says ananas and in English it's pineapple.  So I have been battling a fever.  And a cough.  And feeling like shit.

I didn't have a thermometer until I was recently hospitalised.  Yes, for 56 years I have managed without a thermometer.  Now I take my temperature slightly obsessively, and have discovered that I have a resting body temperature bordering on hypothermia.  35 degrees is very low, but that's my normal.  I am cool, it seems.

I think the fever is on the wane now so hopefully I'll be able to go back to work tomorrow.  Also, more importantly, I have another hospital appointment in the morning for aspiration of my sinuses.  Last time the surgeon couldn't get in because of swelling.  If he cannot get in tomorrow I will be tempted to say look, I've had the local, just keep going, and apply my knee to his elbow.  What's the worst that can happen?

20 weeks today to my departure.

Tessellation

I'm at that stage where I don't know who knows I'm going.  I know that I've upset some people by clumsily getting drunk and posting a link to my blog on Facebook.  I am sorry about that.  But I've never been good at saying goodbye and it's really hard to explain why I want to go.  In truth, I've wanted to leave Brussels for some time. 

I'm sure I've said this before.  I feel like I've said it before: it's like when you are going out with someone and they are nice but you don't love them, and there's not really any reason to break up.  So you just stay together.  Brussels is that boyfriend who you don't really love, but he hasn't done anything to make you want to break up. Which isn't really a good enough reason to stay.

I've met some wonderful people here.   Really lovely, wonderful people.  But as I tried haltingly to explain to one of those lovely people, I just want not to be here.

And now begins a sort of reverse Tetris, where you remove the components of what makes up a life until, on the last day, you are just left with space.  On 31 July, I return to London.  That is the only certainty at the moment. 

Between then and now will be a removal, by small, persistent degrees.

Spam Spam Spam

Last night's posts were brought to you by some pear liqueur.  Potent stuff that left me with a mouth like a badger's gusset.

Going back to the UK this year seems like the most stupid thing of possibly many stupid things I've done in my life.  I'm not sure there will be a UK that I recognise.  It will be mainly Spam, and all the roundabouts in Slough will be given over to crops.  People will wander about shouting spit about getting THERE CUNTRY BACK.  There will be no medication to speak of.  If you get a headache you'll have to chew a willow tree.

But I want to go back.  I feel like my poor stupid fucking country needs me.  Of course, it doesn't, but that makes me feel noble.

It actually feels harder than moving to Brussels seven years ago.  I'm a lot older.  No wiser.  Although I do know about Google docs now.  And I know more French.  Somehow I have to remake another life there.  "There" being an unspecified destination that could be London, York, Leeds, Bristol, Bath, Brighton, Edinburgh, or Croydon.  Yeah, maybe not Croydon.

Perhaps I should move to the place with the most willow trees. 

Seven Year Sitch

What has happened over the last seven years?

Mate, I wish I could tell you.  It's been mainly pasta.  There's been a fair bit of me staring at people like "you have to be kidding, seriously, don't fuck with me".  And the rest has been wine and chips.

I still haven't been to the Atomium.

DID YOU MISS ME

So this feels like the equivalent of wiping my cock on the curtains and then leaving but:

I'm now Belgian and I'm planning to move back to the UK in the summer.

Which is like moving back to the Titanic while the band plays.

Far too many metaphors here.  Have a kitten instead.

And no, that isn't all I want to say.

I moved here on 4 January 2012 without the faintest idea what would happen.  Fucking crazy idea.

But, I got work and have been gainfully and continuously employed since I arrived here.  I learned enough of the language to trick them into thinking I could be Belgian.

And now, although my native country looks like a wet pigeon in the rain I want to go home.

I'm going home.