Muted relief it was, with still much to do before I could move into the new flat, and only a day or so before Becky was back on the plane, heading for the States. In her absence, I threw myself into packing, even though it was still a couple of weeks before the physical move could start. The house sale went, eventually, without a hitch, albeit a good month later than it should have completed. Money and mortage resolved, I was now furiously sorting and, aiming at a stroke to avoid unecessary cost, waste and back-ache in the move, I drew up a meal plan to empty what I could of the cupboards and freezer.
Like a slow Ready, Steady, Cook every weapon of meal construction was brought into play. The bread machine was brought out of semi-retirement. Buckwheat, bought for a dalliance with galettes, became a staple added to new loaves. Joints of meat in the permafrost of the freezer provided dinner and so many a lunch that I briefly considered turning vegetarian. But then the lentils in the food waste reminded me of the alternative and I turned back to the dark side. Curry half portions, battered (and subsequently fossilised) fish, pasta with ragu, chilli with rice, stirfries and fry-ups, all were fair game, although there was no game in the freezer to add more variety. Strangely there were few desserts on offer, I must have been trying to take weight loss and cholesterol somewhat seriously at some point, somewhere along the line. But then there was two litres of Mackies ice cream trying to stare me into submission. And succeeding.
Back in Pensylvania, on Becky’s return, Jackson was again making his own presence felt. Toilet rolls and slippers were getting equal abuse, shoes and socks of every description continued to appear moth-eaten and soggy as if they had been attacked by some kind of doggy-Delta Force. When challenged he’d race to the dining table, taking cover between chair legs, not realising that Vulcan had switched sides and was becoming an invaluable ally in the war on footwear.
In between manoeuvres, Jackson was turning into a huge cuddle-bunny, so winning hearts and minds, even if they had to go barefoot on occasion. His friendship with Vulcan in particular was clearly blossoming despite his turncoat allegiances. One afternoon, on a WhatsApp chat with Becky, it was apparent that Jackson didn’t want to come in from the garden without his brother-from-another-mother. So he put down his cellphone, stopped texting and out he went to shepherd in the Shepherd in person. His sister-from-another-litter was another story, still looking on in disdain at the youngster’s antics … from his bed that she’d recently taken ownership of in the living room.
And while Jackson continued to make himself at home, I was trying not to be defeated by the process of buying my new one. It’s said that some of the most stressful life events are marriage, marital separation, divorce, loss of a loved one, and moving house – ‘threats to one’s social status, self-esteem, identity or physical wellbeing’. I was evidently trying to manage a number of those spinning plates all at once and, while at times it seemed to be sailing ahead (if not plain sailing), sometimes it just seemed too much. Too many unpredictabilities, changing goalposts, rules and due diligence, with an ever-present hint of judgement from others – family and friends who were still, themselves, struggling to come to terms with my life choices.
For example, I try to manage my time and money wisely, to intelligently use legitimate earnings and savings in support of my future, and lawyers then question where the money on my bank statement came from, as if I’m operating a financial laundrette, and haven’t just sold a house. Insurers take forever to press and probe lifestyle and location, reluctant to insure a first floor flat near a river, regardless of the yacht I have stashed in the flat in case the river rises to ark-challenging levels. A model yacht, I might add, that my own dad made with his own hands and taught me to sail on Wirral boating ponds, and big enough to, well, send a message to some modern-day Noah to come and get me.
There’s a lot of stress and strain, eye-crossing and t dotting (or maybe viceversa) as the day of purchase grows nearer, and of course my medical practice chooses just that point to invite me to discuss diet, cholesterol and take my blood pressure. And in the middle of all this I’m working on travelling to see my Mum, help out at her house, and hesitantly break bread with my still uncomprehending (to be charitable) or, worse, still disapproving, older brother. The phrase you’re looking for is ‘glutton for punishment’. But the execution at least can surely be delayed (for good behaviour) until the river reaches my upper floor dwelling, and the city of Perth is thus submerged, and I’m sure I will be tried by ducking stool. Something I’m sure the city is not unfamiliar with, and that my new life assurance policy will have as an exclusion.
Due diligence documents delivered, five days including a weekend to go, and maybe, just maybe I would have a new home in the coming week. One that Jackson would never see, nor share, but a safe harbour for me and for Becky, and occasionally for other family members. Short of flood and plague of frogs. Also excluded from the insurance – still too close to the river.
