29 August 2011

It's been a wee roller-coaster over the last couple of weeks or perhaps the last month say. Only a wee one. I don't like roller-coasters, dizzying heights or exhilarating experiences. But, I've come to a decision about my UK visa expiry which takes place at the end of November. I actually have the right to apply for two more years under my current visa allowances but recently my heart has sunk every time I thought about what the next year would bring. What a surprising reaction! Next year sees the Queen's Diamond Jubilee and the Olympics in London. I've an extra-specially amazing team of colleagues and plenty of exciting work and the bank account is not likely to sustain me for long without employment. Not to mention the fact that the painting does not want a slap-dash finish. This was entirely not the plan. I'm sure when I left, I said to everyone, "five years or forever".

It's Bank Holiday Monday and I'm indoors having a Rolling Stones marathon whilst the rest of London attends the Carnival. I'm disinclined to join them. I've been every other year and I'm sure I'm still reeling from the Fruits de la Mer Fantasie of Saturday night (pun intended). It was a joyous occasion. Martin, Nicholas and Emily woke at the crack of dawn and headed to Billingsgate Fish Market for some early morning bargains which constituted a huge feast. That evening, we devoured almost every single morsel. The mussels and prawns went especially fast. It was like a pack of seagulls had descended on the coffee table.

Our house guest, Celia, is at the Carnival today. We've been looking after her effects more than her because she's such a get-about. As soon as her school term ended she was off, traveling everywhere. Terribly peripatetic. Speaking of the Greeks, one of the first places she went was Athens. Whilst there she was to take the trip up to Delphi and so when I sent her off one work-day morning, having just woken up and feeling very much still full of sleep, I summoned up for her the energy to do the "Navel of the World" routine. You probably know the one. It takes a very thick Mid-West American accent set at a piercing pitch.

When I was one in Delphi, when I was a good deal younger, my companions and I were particularly keen to see the navel of the world - a large stone affair which looks like half and egg on a plinth. It's the kind of belly-button one might get if the doctor hasn't tied their umbilical cord quite tight enough. When we found it, two very large American woman had parked their very large butts up against it which was prohibiting our getting a satisfactory photo of the thing. After a while, we managed to get their attention which was difficult, to say the least, because they were giving each other an in-depth account of the items that they liked to have for breakfast.

"I have my eggs once a week. And my oatmeal everyday, everyday."

"Oh, a photo! You want a photo? What is it? Oh the navel. The navel of the World? How do you know this?"

You've heard this one, no doubt. It's nice to be reminded. I'll do it again for you sometime. Anyway, with that, I sent Celia on her way, and I've hardly seen her since!

Granted, I was away myself, spending some time back in New Zealand to celebrate Mother's Sixtieth. It's a big occasion. I'm glad that I was there. I must admit, I was also using the opportunity to do some reconnaissance. I wanted to be clear on how I felt about leaving London and moving back home. It has been four years. I do think that's a good effort (although, I remain surprised at myself).

It wasn't life though. It was a holiday. I had a wild time full of parties and wanderings and ramblings and sitting and gazings... There was cider and wine and tea and long breakfasts. Is that really what it's like there? Certainly not. And if it was, I would be simply obese after a few months. But it was nice, nonetheless. Stephen and I sat in front of the tank at Kelly Tarlton's watching the great, old stingrays circle their tank. Why don't I just show you... here, I've added the video. Isn't it grand?

I was plagued by cake for the duration of the trip. Everywhere I turned, cake, right there! I must have eaten enough to be certifiably cake-product by the time I left. Needless to say, it's been a strict regime of vegetables since landing at Heathrow. You couldn't imagine how many times I had to do the "Cake or Death?" routine. I love it so.

Cake, or death?
Death, no! Cake, cake, I mean cake.
You said death.
Oh, but I meant cake.
Oh, very well.

So as cake plagued me, everyone else was plagued by me reciting this routine until it was done to death.

Routine or death?
Routine, no! Death, death, I mean death.
You said routine.
Oh, but I meant death.
Oh, very well.

I seem to have a few routines up my sleeve that I've been recycling lately - what with the fat ladies on the navel and pilfering from Izzard.

On moving: What if it's all a huge mistake!? London is a wonderful place to live (forget the riots for now). Emily and I were following the crowd between some very hip place in Shoreditch, with a brilliant rooftop where you can watch the sun go down over the sprawling buildings, and another very hip Pizza place. I felt far too trendy in this the very trendiest of districts. I'm practically a scene-ster. We revelled in the picture of the man that we glimpsed parking up his red double-decker quietly, having laid down his London Transport issue jacket as a prayer mat, because it was that time of the evening.

What do you think? Oh, don't tell me. You know that I'll book the ticket based on my whims and not any reasonable argument. It's the regret that frightens me. Of course, it will always feel a little like this, no matter when the packing up process starts - this year, next year. But start it must. I can't be here forever.

And it's definitive statements like that, which roll off the finger-tips, which tell me that somewhere, deep-down in the depths, the decision has already been made and the rest of me is just catching up.