So, what have I achieved thus far ....

Gah, what a horrid question to ask yourself, you'll only ever fall short of your childhood ambitions of 'where I should be/have done by the time I'm really old'. In fact, depressingly, I believe I once decreed that anything over 29 was ancient and I would hate to be 'that old'. Fucking youth, it sets you up for a giant fall when you blink and realise that your skin elasticity and days of clubbing 'til dawn are long gone. Do I feel like I've done what I wanted to do? Probably not, I'm not a famous author, nor am I a vet, so my childhood dreams clearly never panned out (in my defence I hate blood/guts/bodily fluids of any kind - human or animal - so my career as a vet would have been severely limited) As for being an author, I never managed the peaceful garret room overlooking the Seine that I'd planned on penning my first best seller from, so on that score it was an epic fail.

What have I achieved? What am I most proud of? Well, the kids for one thing I guess, for someone who can't put together flat pack shelves, growing 3 little human beings was quite an achievement. They give me an ernomous sense of purpose. That's not to say I'm living the dream I had when pregnant with Jbird of floating around wearing White Company outfits and cooking up gourmet food for 3 appreciative Boden catalogue model children whilst still being uber glam, sexy wife. Oh no, no, no - I am screechy Mummy/bad tempered Mummy and over protective Mummy, as well as being lovely Mummy, mummy who bakes and mummy who wants to instill a spirit of adventure in her kids. I am also *shamed face* the kind of wife I swore I'd never be - fat of arse, grumpy of temper and sometimes too tired to talk to my gorgeous husband. I try, truly I do, but after an evening of dinner/bath/bed routine, followed by the washing/dishwasher/tidy the house routine, I'd quite happily skulk off to bed at 9pm. This, apparently, will get easier as the kids either get older or learn to load and unload the dishwasher/washing machine. I'll let you know if it's true. If I have the energy to type.

I'd like to be proud of more though so I'm sat here, wracking my brains trying to come up with more .... am I a good friend? A good daughter/sister? I like to think I am, I can be viciously sarcastic and use humour aa a defence mechanism when I'm nervous, so sometimes I may indicate to people that I'm just not that bothered about them. I am though, I invest a lot in friendships/relationships. Some fall by the wayside naturally, some new ones sneak in when you're not looking and some stand the test of time. The sign of a true friendship is realising that you'd still like that person if you met now, in the present, as opposed to way back when. It's also about realising that you'd still be friends with them even if they didn't know all that dodgy sh*t about you from way back when!

Though they may be little, they be damned loud

I write better than I talk, I always have done, even as a little girl I'd write reams and reams of very-important-things-about-my-life. It's a blessing because I get to scribble my thoughts down and then revisit them (sometimes whilst cringing at my angst at the time) years later, but it's a also a curse in that there are things I'd love to say to people but can never find the words to speak them. I was reading back through a note I wrote when I'd just had Ol and it still makes me misty eyed;

Jakob - came out a ball of fury & doing things his way or no way, had reflux, never ever ever slept, crawled at 4.5 months, walked at 8.5 months, always on the move, fearless, stubborn, independent, loyal, passionate about the things he loves (he could name all of Thomas' side kicks at 12 months and would recite Slinky Malinki word for word not long after that) He's always reserved his smiles and cuddles for a select few and is never won over by fake charm from anyone! His eyes flash dangerously when he's angry or upset but seem to be made of liquid chocolate when he's sad. He makes us laugh like no-one else can and has a wicked sense of humour. He's like quicksilver though, he can be laughing one minute and furious the next.

J's my high maintenance boy and I love him passionately whilst always knowing that he walks his own path and always will. I think I'm just his caretaker until he's old enough to take off on his solo adventures! He'll either be prime minister or in borstal by the time he's 20!!

Oliver - arrived quickly and easily, sleeps like a dream, eats anything we give him (and steals things we don't!) Placid & easy going, he's happy to lie and let the world come to him, has a slow easy smile he bestows on anyone and everyone, loves cuddles, drinks in what his older brother does with a knowing look and a slight air if 'what on earth are you doing?' about him, he's strong but not desperate to move, he can wobble back and forth in an attempt to crawl but is already 2.5 months behind Jakob when it comes to actually moving! He never cries unless he's hungry or hurting.

He'll be my strong silent boy - taking it all in ready to make anything better with a cuddle and beautiful smile. His eyes are like marbles and are grey one day and brown the next, they change like those weird mood rings you used to get! He's a sweetheart.

I love them both equally and I'm glad they're so different!

Wow, what a difference 4 years makes, and how wrong can a parent be? Ol is certainly not my strong silent boy! He is, by all accounts, a whirling ball of complete lunacy. He's devilishly handsome and works a room to his advantage, he's selfish and stubborn and strong willed and I crack far more often than he does. He will either be an international playboy, he does so love nice food and being the centre of attention or a builder, he likes bashing things with other things and taking things apart! He's just started school and part of me knows he's ready (socially anywhow) the other part of me feels a bit tight chested that my just-4 year old is in a class with children who are just-5. I want to cuddle him and tell him he doesn't have to be the loudest, bumpiest in the class to make his mark and be noticed, he just needs to be him, because that's enough, he's wonderful. He's a beautiful soul, inside and out, and he doesn't need to try so hard to impress the bigger boys.

As for J? He's still my warrior, my little pace setter, the boy who leads the way, but he's also a thinker and a muller-over-of-things. He's so clever it makes my heart almost burst with pride. This morning he was ansty because he thought he'd be late for school, and therefore his maths lesson (this is surely no child of mine? I failed GCSE maths no less than 3 times!) He reads voraciously (that one does come from me - maternal 'looking for things that I have passed onto my children' satisfied there) He writes lists and lists of things and stuns me with his appetite for knowledge and facts and whys and whens and hows. He's also a comedian, he comes out with the most wickedly funny one liners and observations. He and Kris have started a book about the move to NZ, every night before bed J writes down questions about NZ and then Kris writes the answers in and they talk about it the next morning. Kris has also started adding pictures (of Lake Taupo, the sky tower, a mountain range and a marlin) Last night's entry by Jakob, underneath the picture of the mountain range simply said 'this is not a question Daddy, this (arrow to the picture) is beautiful'.

And then there's Leni-lou. What can I say about Leni-lou? I hesitate to use the expression of 'little Princess' but that's exactly what she is. Her brothers adore her, and she adores them, though there are moments when she'll be squealing at them and they'll be yelling at me to get her away from the lego/pencils/gogos they're playing with, and at those moments you'd be hard pushed to feel the love in the room! As is her genetic predisposition, she's stubborn, determined and forthright. Even my lovely Mum (who, don't forget, has raised me and my siblings - a trio of stubborn, noisy, self righteous beings if ever there was one) has had to admit that Elena brings with her a special kind of determined. She is very sweet though, and though I know all parents think their children are beautiful (as they should) she is particularly delicious. She's not classically pretty or especially 'bonny baby competition' but she's sparky and fiery and gorgeous and interesting to look at. I can spend hours wtaching her little head bent over some task, taking in her little curls, feline eyes and chubby cheeks. My friend Suz once gave me a badge after she visited the RSC, which took pride of place on Leni's change bag for a while, it said 'though she may be but little, she be fierce' .... I like to think William Shakespeare had a premonition of a sparky little girl called Elena when he wrote that, because never a truer word has been spoken about anyone!

Stick a fork in me, I'm done (in) Friday musings ....

Friday, Friday, my how you've changed. I remember a time when Friday meant counting down the minutes 'til 5pm and then high tailing it out of work to the nearest wine bar, debit card ready for another weekend of impromptu partying and catching up with friends (particularly my good friends Pinot and Grigio) Life has changed incredibly in the last 15 years, my early to late twenties were spent in a blur of friends/booze/work/clubbing/buying stupidly expensive shoes and bags and generally being young, free and single.

I met Mr T many years ago but we didn't get 'together' as a couple until we were 27. Throughout my entire late teens and mid twenties I was foot loose and answered to no-one, I had my own flat and loved being completetely irresponsible and pleasing only myself. Though actually, that's not strictly speaking true, I did have one ill advised 'engagement' and a couple of unsuitable flings but nothing and no-one had ever made me want to clear a space in my girl-pad for any man and their assorted smells & noises. Until Mr T. One horrific home cooked meal (it smelt like sick and looked worse quite frankly) a few dates later and he moved in - african mask, golf clubs and all.

So my thirties hit me a bit like a freight train, 2 days before my 30th birthday I did the ol' peeing on a stick routine and BAM, what do ya' know, I was pregnant. Life changed as soon as those 2 lines appeared. No more long, lazy (in truth, hungover) weekends. Now we had a baby to think about. All I remember from being pregnant with Jbird is an overwhelming urge to eat chicken and rice. Poor Mr T, every evening he'd hopefully ask what we were having for dinner (my inner 50's housewife having reared her head, I was doing most of the cooking at this stage) and every night the answer would be the same 'chicken, rice and tomatoes'. Poor bloke. 5 months of that he put up with. Anyway, Jbird arrived, shook our world, changed the way we looked at things and made us realise we quite liked being parents. We didn't like the projectile vomit much (reflux) nor the late nights(J's a party animal, always has been and didn't sleep through until he was nearly 3) but mostly we liked this sparky, energetic little creature with the ernomous brown eyes. So, that's where Oli-in-the-middle entered our lives, a gentle, placid wee soul who shocked us both by showing us that we could love another baby as much as we did his older brother. The gentle, placid wee soul turned out to be a fire cracker mind you, so initial appearances can be deceptive it seems. We were happy with our two little blokes, life was getting easier, Ol was starting school in 18 months and we were getting used to not having to cart pushchairs/nappies etc etc around with us. What's that? Yep, Oli-in-the-middle is Oli-IN-THE-MIDDLE indicating there's another one. Our little surprise, our brucie bonus, the full house, icing on the cake Leni-lou.

Now there's a shocker, not only was she a big suprise (well, as surprising as being pregnant when you're 36 and have done it twice before can be anyway!) but she's a whole new kind of little T. Where her brothers have dark, flashing eyes and mops of dark brown curls, she has the most amazing grey eyes and blonde curls. Truly a genetic throw back to her maternal grandmother's Scottish ancestry .... and two fingers up to her Dad's dark Spanish genes which we thought was a dead cert to bully out any recessive pale genes that I carry.

That's us in a nutshell, 2 parents, 3 kids, an axllotl (look it up, all I'll say is I'm mighty glad that thing can't be imported to NZ and will have to be found a new home!!) There's nothing extraordinary about us, we don't set the world alight or save lives on a daily basis but I do know for a fact that my kids are the most amazing, beautiful, clever, funny kids in the entire world. Ever. I'd even go so far as to say that I pity other parents that they don't have my kids ... because that's been my biggest life lesson since my good friends Pinot and Grigio were tossed aside for nappies and night feeds - every parent feels that way about their children. Your children will drive you demented by moments but you know that they're the most important people in the world. So, whilst you're reading this, you're probably thinking 'ha, I pity HER not having MY kids' and that's ok, because we both know that I'm thinking the same about you.

Happy Friday!

And the winner is ..... Mummy!

This evening, dinner time, that time of day that usually puts me in mind of witching hour and seems to render my children unable to speak to me without whingeing. Oli-in-the-middle is our little fruit bat, the child will mainline as much fruit as you can possily throw at him at any given time, will he eat a vegetable though? Nope, not if he can see it anyways (hence my stunning ability to hide veg in all manner of things!) Anyway, he's 4, he's always been like this and I've grown used to watching him eat everything except the veg on his plate so have just assumed that was how he'd stay. Jbird will eat pretty much anything as long as you give you him a full rundown of what it's doing to his body (slightly boring at every meal but we do the whole 'this provides Vit C/D/Iron and makes you run/jump higher/faster') He's happy with that, J's our little athlete so reassurances that by eating veg he'll retain his 'fastest boy in Y2' crown always work their magic. Leni-lou's another voracious eater and is happy as long as noone interferes with the way she wants to eat. I look back fondly on the days when I could spoon feed her, she's now insistent she can do it and has a total freak if you dare try and do it for her. My walls/floor/table are testament to her fiercely independent streak when it comes to feeding!

So, today, after a day of one tantrum after another *grits teeth, I know, I know, he's just started school, he's tired and strung out and this too will pass but c'mon, give me a break, he's been HORRIBLE* it was dinner time. Tonight's dinner was pizza and steamed veg, a mid week standby for days when I don't have the inclination/energy/brain power to come up with ways to hide veg in proper food stuffs. It's pretty standard Ol behaviour to eat the pizza 'as long as it's not touching the vegetables' and leave anything green/leafy/vitamin filled on his plate. This evening, after an afternoon spent in meltdown for various reasons (slipping on the wooden floor and 'breaking my foooooot', Peppa Pig not being on, his milk cup being 'just wrong' etc etc etc ad infinitum) the child ate every last thing on his plate - babycorn, broccoli, carrots and peas. Every.thing. And then had seconds, all the while telling me chirpily how much he 'loves carrots, they make my eyes see better'. This is the child who even as a weaning baby would resolutely seal his mouth shut if I veered a spoon full of broccoli smush too close. The child who, aged 18 months, made himself puke rather than ingest a pea.

He had seconds!!! I can't tell you how much I wanted to stand on the table doing a victory dance whilst chanting 'in your face Ol, told you you'd eat veg one day, you looooose, I win!' I may do it later, in private, to myself.

One small step for Ol-kind, one giant leap for Mummy-kind .... mind you, he's staying for lunch at school tomorrow and having hot dinners (he's been packed lunches up until now) so I wish the dinner ladies (sorry, midday supervisors) all the luck in the world with him. Bet they're far too professional to do a victory dance anyway.

'So, Mr T, shall we emigrate?'

And that's how it all started, a throw away comment at the end of another long day for both of us, both tired, and a bit fed up of working our arses off (mainly Mr T I have to say .... I only work 2 days a week so the old 'long hours/working my arse' thing doesn't really apply) We looked at each other and just said 'why not?' not really thinking the other would go for it and, like so many pipe dreams, it'd just fade into the recesses after a while, but it didn't, this time it stuck.

To be honest I've always known that Mr T wanted to travel again, he spent a chunk of time in Fiji/Australia and New Zealand when he was a young backpacker and had fallen in love with NZ in particular. Me? Not so much, we moved around a fair bit when I was younger (Paris, Lyon, Wilsthire, Somerset, Lincolnshire and finally Gloucestershire - did you think it was going to read like a fashion mag? Paris, NY, Milan? Did the addition of 'Wiltshire' throw you?!) so my wanderlust was never really as pronounced as Mr T's. I've always been a bit of a homebird, putting down roots and familiarity are my 'thing' - I don't do spontaneous, or madcap or 'just for the hell of it', which is probably why my willingness to even discuss taking our little family halfway round the world came as such a shock to Mr T. Discuss it we did though, at length, and I could see his eyes light up with the excitement of it all and I got so caught up in it all, and so pleased to see how happy it made him, that before we knew it he had phone interviews lined up and guide books were bought, and giggled conversations were being had about 'when we live in NZ ...'.

There's a photo stuck to our fridge of a mountain on the South Island of NZ, it's reflected in the water so looks like it's rising out of another mountain, it's surrounded by water and there's a blue sky and scudding clouds above it. It's a beautiful photo and I've often looked at it and thought 'how beautiful that is, how amazing to have been able to see that' and then thought no more of it, until I pass the fridge next time and glance at it again. That photo's taken in new significance now because whenever I look at it I think 'it WILL be amazing to see that, and all the other things that are out there to see'.

It's been hard even getting to this point - the point at which we WILL go, we just don't know WHEN yet. There have been tears and a lot of sadness though, the feeling that things will never be the same again once we board that plane is a very powerful one. There are moments when I want to call the whole thing off and just stay near my Mum and all the things that are so familiar to me. I don't feel ready to take on the world, just me, my 3 beautiful children and wonderful husband. I want to be young and be looked after and told everything will be fine. I know it will be, fine I mean, because I know that whatever happens I have the most amazing kids who are going to benefit so much from being shown what else is out there. And there is more out there that they deserve to see and be a part of - there are volcanoes and mountains and the Tasman sea and whales and snow and the most amazing sunsets and rises. And there's sport to be played and waves to be ridden and sand to be felt beneath their toes. It's all there for them to experience and we can give it to them, we just need to get this horrible, hard bit out the way first. The first flight away from 'home' and all the people we love so much, who are our rocks and our drinking buddies and the people we laugh with/cry with and would do anything for. The one thing I hope we leave with them all is that this move isn't about escaping anything or anyone in the UK, we love this country and our life here, I just can't help but feel that there's a whole life out there that we need to experience or we'll always wonder 'what if' and I don't want to be that 'what if' person anymore, I want to be the person who said 'come on, let's just do it'.

'For Sale' board and other tangible signs we're actually.going.to.do.it

So, your house goes on the market and the usual process is a For Sale board goes up quick smart and bob's your uncle right? Wrong. In our world nothing is easy and following on in a fine tradition of 'things never being straight forward' the For Sale sign saga began.

Week 1, Dear estate agent, please could you get a For Sale board up?

Week 2, Dear estate agent, any sign of our, umm, sign?

Week 3, Dear estate agent, am I to scrawl my own rudimentary For Sale sign accross my house or would you be kind enough to get a board put up?

Week 3 and 2 days - apparently our windows are too shallow for a board and, as we live in a row of terraced houses that face directly oto the pavement, there's nowhere to stake a board outside. What would I like them to do? Ummm, well now, here's the thing, I don't know because For Sale boards aren't my forte, any suggestions? They can screw it into the wall. Good say I, let's do that then. Ah, say they, if we do that though we need to drill into your wall. O-ok, say I, needs must and presumably the next time it will come down is when we've sold the house (board included) so drill holes will not be my concern. True, say they. Up it goes then say I, a skip in my step that we have a board up, finally.

48 hours later and the board resides in a dejected heap by our front door, screws used clearly not long enough.

F*ck it I say, who needs a board.

'Walk' my *rse .....

So, my friend Gemma puts out a general 'who'd like to take part in this walk for charity?' plea on her FB page. 'Why not?' I think, sign me up, how hard can 10 miles actually be? Really bloody hard is the answer, and I say that with the benefit of 48 hours having passed since I did it. I walked like John Wayne yesterday, my arse, thighs and calves were killing me. Kill. Ing. Me. It wasn't the gentle stroll I'd envisaged to be honest, it was a pretty harsh hill climb. The hils round here are beautiful once you get to the top of them, it's just that usually, I drive to the top and have a stroll round for a bit, get back in the car and drive home. This time we climbed them before we could do the 'oooh pretty' bit. Ouch.

Still, it's done now and we raised lots of money for charity ... which is pretty much the only thing that kept me going passed those annoyingly upbeat '1/2/3/4 etc etc mile' signs!! I will say this though, the TA's who were helping to marshall the event can bugger off .... when I'm in agony with calf cramps/sweating like a beast and swearing like a trooper, I do NOT need Private Cheerful McCheerful jogging past with his backpack sending a cheery 'keep it up ladies, you're doing really well' over his (rapidly dissapearing into the distance) shoulder. Though as Gemma pointed out, it's amazing how we both pretended to be all springy and full of energy everytime we passed one of them pointing us in the right direction.

It was all worth it in the end, finish post passed, goodie bag got (lightbulbs, jelly beans, a pen and some popcorn for those who wanted to know!) and money raised, which is what it was all about.

Croissants, milk and valium

So mornings with 2 school aged children are a blast right?! Now Oli-in-the-middle has joined Jbird at primary school, mornings have taken on a slightly nightmarish quality. Trying to get 3  children up, fed, dressed, cleaned and out the door seems to be taking superhuman displays of organisation and planning at the moment. I clearly failed this morning as when we got to school my friend Stef pointed out that Leni-lou still had yesterday's carbonara lunch in her hair. Parenting fail. In my defence yesterday was a work day for me and these are usually the days where my chidren will hustled out the door to Stef's (my friend and childminder) still half asleep, clutching the remnants of breakfast (which reminds me, there's a half eaten croissant in my handbag from Oli-in-the-middle's refusal to eat breakfast this morning, my theory was thus; if he can eat it whilst scootering to school, maybe it will be more appealing. parenting fail numero deux of the day) You can also bet your bottom dolar on the fact that they won't get bathed in the evening, after an hour stuck on the bus from Gloucester after work, all I'm usually good for is a perfunctory teeth clean, flannel wash and speed read bedtime story. Monday and Fridays are not my glory days parenting wise.

Life not being complicated enough in the morning, I decided to throw in having to get Jbird to do his homework whilst trying to get Ol to finish his 'what I did on my summer holidays' project (I tell you what he DIDN'T do on his summer holidays and that's his 'what I did on my summer holidays' project, because if he had I wouldn't have been chivvying him along trying to remind him of what he did whilst shoving milk and croissants at the other 2 children) Cue mad scramble trying to find photos of summer holiday activities, any art he may have done (none by the way, he did none, so I had to raid his playgroup end of year project and rip off some old artwork as summer holiday stuff) and get him to write his name. All this was done whilst stopping Leni-lou from shoving lego up her nose and helping Jbird answer questions about what method Victorian farmers used to get their animals to market (a cart ... I hope, or that'll be parenting fail number 3 of the day and it's only 10am) Jbird also had to finish his reading book, which didn't take long as he'd choosen a Where's Wally? book from the free reading box at school. There's a bit of me that thinks that there's no real place for a Where's Wally? book in a free reading box but on this occasion I'm letting it go as it took marginally less time for him to find the irritating speccy dude than it would have done for him to read a book.

So, 830am and 3 children homeworked/fed and dressed. Not bad. Mind you, the smallest one is still bombing round trying to shove lego up her nose, for now though the fcat we're ready to leave the house takes the 'aaghh' out of having to rescue another lego man from death by nostril. You think you're safe now, they're ready to go, you're ready to go, the front door is in sight and the hallowed prize is so close you can smell it (the hallowed prize being the moment you get your children to school on time and into their classroom!) but wait! What's this I hear? Ah, yes, the sound of mutiny in the ranks, the low level grumbled whisper of scooters and whether they'll be allowed to take them today. No, I'm being strong, no scooters today, we're walking Jbird's friend in to school too and the thought of 3 boys, 1 pushchair, 2 scooters and the daily fiht about conkers makes me feel slightly clammy and sick. The clock ticks, the stand off continues, we all eye ball each other, who'll break first?! Me. I break first, compromise - Ol can take scooter and I'll bring J's to school later (a proper pain in the arse as he has a very big, very heavy scooter which I'll have to juggle with puschair/Ol later) I feel sorry for J though, he's compromised as Ol's meltdown should he not be allowed to scoot is such a hideous thought that even the 6.5 year old knows when to quit. My beautiful, clever eldest. I need to tell him more often how wonderful he is.

We're out the door. Result. Get to school (no conker arguments, result) drop off one child in reception, with lunchbox, homework and rain coat. One child to Yr2 with homework, lunchbox and coat, plus one friend, also with coat, bookbag and lunchbox. These are littel victories but I'll take them where I can! Almost there, the school gate's in sight and Leni-lou and I will be home free for 4 hours (Ol being on stupid half days for another 3 weeks) Nearly there .... 'I don't know how you do it, I struggle to get 1 child out the house on time, well done you!' says playground Mum ..... now do I tell her? Or not? Nah, let her think I breeze out the house on a cloud of parenting success every morning, noone need know how traumatic mornings can be right?!

Attack of ...... 'The Fear' dum dum dummmmmm

Just about anything will set me off lately, but in the main it's the thought of getting old - either Kris or I, or our families. I think underneath all the excitement of the NZ move is the nagging feeling that I'm abandoning my parents when I should really be stepping up and being here for them. After all, they've looked out for me and my brother and sister for years and it should be their turn to reap the rewards of having 3 children and 7 grandchildren around. Instead I'm taking 3 of those grandchildren and moving halfway around the world and I won't be there for them anymore, I mean I'll always 'be there' but physically I'll be thousands of miles away. I find myself having morbid 'what happens if ....' thoughts about how I'd get back to the UK in a hurry if either parent needed me to. I know millions of people have made this journey before, and they've all probably had these thoughts but sometimes the knowledge that other people have felt like this just isn't enough to allay my fears - after all, they're not me, it's not MY mum they think of, it's theirs. I feel trapped by these feelings of utter sadness because day to day at least, the life I imagined I'd have with my parents in their later years, won't be as I'd imagined.

Today's fit of 'what the f*ck are we doing?!' was set off by two elderly people coming into the office to enquire about a property. They seemed perfectly happy, and were perfectly polite but they'd recently returned from Australia, after living there for 30 years, and were just completely shell shocked by how little they could get for their money here, and how much council tax they'd need to pay (they even called it the Poll tax which shows how out the loop they were) and they just seemed so weary from the whole process. It made me realise that Kris, the children and I are stepping off the housing ladder in the UK, packing up all our worldly goods and travelling thousands of miles for a better life and we may never. ever be able to settle here again. I don't want to sound patromising but watching this old couple today made me so unbearably sad, they have no home of their own (yet .... ever the consumate saleswoman I did point them in the direction of one of our properties!) they're thousands of miles from somewhere they've called home for 30 years and are having to pretty much start again. I just felt a pang that it may be Kris and I sat there in 30 years, trying to come back and being shell shocked by how much has changed in the UK. This is my home and the thought of never being totallys ettled here again has brought out my inner scaredy cat, the one who would quite like to bury her head in the sand for the next few months and just be woken up as she steps off the plane please.

So, the african face mask and Jamaican wood carving can't come? Oh no *sad face*

There's something very strange about letting a total stranger into your house and asking them to tell you how much/how little of your stuff you can feasibly conatiner over to your new life. Luckily the man from Anglo-Pacific had both a sense of humour and 4 children of his own, because Oli-in-the-middle was his usual self (imagine a loud, drunk midget who wraps a kite string round your legs/the bannisters/his little sister whilst shouting 'can we take my Boba Fett helmet' for what feels like hours but is probably only seconds and you're pretty close!)

'Anyway, to business' said the brave man from Anglo-Pacific as he stepped over the kite string trip wire that Oli-in-the-middle had rigged up, 'let's take you through what you can't take first and then we'll assess the house'. Now, those of you who know the history of Mr T's and I's relationship will know that when we moved in together (i.e when he adnitted he was practically living at my flat anyway) he brought several items with him. In no particular order of randomness they included; a carving made from some Jamaican wood that sinks in water (fact fans, that's the most exciting thing about the carving - that it sinks, it serves no other purpose, it's not even pretty) a red vase (that got broken not long back) some grotty pillows and a wooden face mask. Oh, and 3 wetsuits, a set of golf clubs, 5 pairs of football boots, a signed Cheltenham town football and a backpack, but they're not important as they've slowly but surely been 'rehoused' along the way. So, imagine my delight, sorry sadness, when lovely Anglo-Pacific man (we'll call him AP man from here on in I think) informed me that 'wicker, seagrass, untreated wood and candles' are now prohibited from being taken to NZ. Gutted. I hope we find a good home for them. Before I'm accused of being too quick to assume that the mask/carving wont make it, I showed AP man said items and he decreed they would not be allowed in the container. What a lovely, lovely AP man.

In other good news, all but our wooden/wicker storage unit and our garden furniture will make it onto a 20 foot container. I even showed him all the clothes 'that they're going to grow into' in storage bags under the beds and he didn't flinch. Though he did say 'there's a lot of stuff for a small room' in Leni-lou's room, I pointed out that the armchair wasn't coming along but I don't think it was just that he was talking about. I also have to go through our Christmas decorations box and get rid of any pine cone type decs, which is fine, what's not so fine will be telling J his collection of pine cones won't be making the trip halfway round the world. Maybe I'll let the lovely man from Anglo-Pacific tell him that bit .....