Living Apart

I am writing this on a Monday morning, tucked up in the corner of a gorgeous, independent little café in Kendal. The coffee is equally as good, the sun is streaming in and the vibe is ideal for a solid few hours of productivity. Daughter is at school 20 minutes away where she does an 8-5 day and has so fallen in love with her new school, she has begged us not to return “home.” Wherever home is.

I ask the question because as I sit and write of this idyll in our new Cumbrian stomping ground, my husband and 12 year old son are holding the fort some 300 miles away in Suffolk; our other stomping ground. We miss them, desperately as we take these first tentative steps into our new lives, staying in a glamping pod that has taking on more “shed” like status since the temperatures plummeted overnight. Most people stay on the site for a weekend and the reason for this is becoming increasingly apparent as the days pass and the charm of living in a box fades as quickly as the autumnal nights close in. This is very definitely not a holiday.

The location of our temporary accommodation is 4 minutes drive from school which has been a (strategically chosen) blessing in these early days as I dash back and forth from pod HQ to school with forgotten items such as hockey sticks, gum shields and other essentials for a jam-packed daily curriculum. What we have managed to assemble and process in pod HQ is quite astonishing, especially given that we have a Golden Retriever and German Shepherd puppy keeping us company; in a room no bigger than a king-sized bed. That is right. If I wasn’t unhinged before we arrived, I may well be by the time this is over.

To add insult to mild (but nonetheless sustained and acutely felt) injury, we were ‘supposed’ to exchange contracts last Friday, although I have come to realise that ‘supposed’ has a whole new and exclusive meaning quite aside from anything the dictionary has to say about it, when it comes to moving house. You can infer from my sentiment and tone here that we did in fact NOT exchange contracts. Instead, we received the standard 18:00 hours phone-call from the solicitor explaining there has been another arbitrary and inexplicable delay relating to paperwork and we faced another weekend of uncertainty. So, whilst Husband and I work, live, parent and educate our children 300 miles apart, we continue to wait… and feel a little bit sick, every single moment of every single day.

Many years ago, we sold our house to a family who were relocating and due to delays they lived in a caravan nearby so their children could start school. The poor Dad had a breakdown and I remember thinking how dreadful the whole thing was and how exceedingly lucky we were to be living at least, in bricks and mortar. Famous last words and all that.

Amongst all this anxiety and lingering doubt, there is a quiet optimism that clings to our conversation like the damp towels in pod HQ that cling to the cold radiator. We would not be making the investment and sacrifice, if we didn’t ultimately believe we would be successful in our endeavour. It is a travesty that in this country, such life-changing decisions need to be made before the exchange of contracts is undertaken. The whole process is beyond desperate for reform and I haven’t spoken to one person who disagrees. But for now, we are a family divided by the miles and we have invested everything we have in optimism and blind faith.

Ambition and adventure come at a high price it would seem, and one must be willing to pay. That really does appear to be both the simplicity and complexity of the transaction. Now, I have a question. What red would you recommend for a Monday morning?