We got a job!

Yes, you read right! I mentioned Hubbie's third interview the last time I blogged. Well it was followed by a quick fourth, and yesterday he signed the contract to become an official employee at the consultancy firm. Hooray! We are so grateful and amazed. We can hardly express our joy. Yesterday when we drove to the supermarket, we gazed out at the streets with new eyes and we wanted to throw our arms around the buildings and the people in the rain. We kept yelling, "Woohoooooo! We are here to stay!" and scaring the daylights out of our son.

It's been such a long haul. I was already preparing myself for leaving this friendly town for cold, distant Paris. I thought about what we've been through, and how all of it served to grow us more in our faith. I have learned so much about what it means to trust in the sovereignty of God -- how tough it is to trust in real difficulty, and how easy it is to give it lip-service when life is easy. Not that we've had it that hard, but it was hard enough for us! The beginning was the worst by far, when Hubbie applied for dozens of jobs and never heard from anyone. I think the biggest lesson for us was the realization we had been in a type of spiritual complancency in our well-oiled church in London. We have learned so much about what it means to be truly a part of the church, by attending a church still in its infancy and investing in people more than we ever had before. Many lessons have been learned... and all would have comforted me if we had had to go to Paris.

But we are so very, very happy to be able to stay.

All this has given us an exceptional buildup to Christmas. I don't think we have ever so looked forward to celebrating the birth of Jesus with the family. Today we got out of the apartment and did some Christmas shopping. Had it not been for Hubbie feeling ill, we probably would have spent far too much money. Surely another stroke of providence! Tonight it's like Hubbie has finally allowed himself to exhale after so many months of stressful job hunting. His body called in its debt with a 39.6 C (103.3 F) temperature an hour ago. Now he is literally stretched out on the sofa, snoring. God, bless him.

One Last Try

Hubbie had a third-round interview with a consultancy firm today. As expected, the firm didn't have a project to put him on right away, so they claimed they would only be able to offer him a job in early January. We will wait, like we have before, for this hope to become reality and for the job to materialise... but we have decided that if it does not happen by the 5th Jan, we will start looking for work in Paris.

Paris is not so bad, with its grandes rues, cafés, museums and large ex-pat community. I mean, it is one of the most beautiful cities in the world. But to us, it's just another big city containing big city people and offering a big city (speedy) lifestyle. We have never felt drawn to live in Paris. Where we live now, people strike up conversations with neighbours, with mail carriers, with people in the metro, anywhere, anytime. I often chat with moms in the playground, even with my limited franςais. I love that gift of gab most French have and their willingness to use it. When we were in Paris in October, we went to a playground, and our 17-month old son fell flat on his back after being intimidated by a bigger kid. The kid's mom was on her cellular phone the whole time, vaguely watching us. She didn't say a word to me. She did not offer an apologetic look. She did not even look me in the eye. That, to me, symbolised the general feel of being Parisian.

If Paris is where we are meant to be, then that is where we will end up. It will make me sad to leave this place. We've made some friends through the church we attend here, and had hoped we could stick around to serve in this congregation. Being older now, our son will probably notice the change of environment and it would probably affect him more than our move from London. We hope it won't cause behavioural problems or problems sleeping! The stress of moving again may cause me to have behavioural problems.

Of course, there are a few churches we know of that we could serve in in Paris or in the suburbs. That may well be where God wants us to be. We will wait and see.

A glimmer of hope

Monday, Hubbie had an interview at a consultancy firm and it went very well. The director of the company met with him and told him he has valuable experience (even if it's in a different sector) and wants him to come back for a second round. It's such good news. And such a boost of confidence for Hubbie. We are hoping and praying the second round will go well. However, with the economy the way it is, the director pointed out he might not have any projects until January. So there are a few things that need to fall into place before we start celebrating.

Thanks so much to everyone who prayed for Hubbie's interview Monday. God heard you. :)

More good news arrived on Wednesday. I got a part-time job teaching English at an international language institute. It won't pay much, but it takes some pressure off of us. I may try to get another part-time job over the holidays, depending on whether the language institute expects a slow month (December usually is).

I'm also trying to get back into freelance writing. I don't have much news on that front but will let you know if anything ever gets published!

Lastly, our 18-month old son L is quickly becoming a terrible two. Oh no!!! He says NO to everything we ask him, even if he means yes. For instance: "Do you want to faire dodo (go to sleep)?"; "Nooooo"; "Do you want more cheese?"; "NOOOOO"; "What do you want to do?"; "DODO." When he is being playful, he often head-butts his poor Papa to the point that today, he thought L had given him a black eye. L recently turned his deceptively innocent Winnie-the-Pooh-mobile into a toe-smashing machine. If we punish him, he whines loudly, and as he finds that effective in eliciting a response from us, has notched up the volume this week. I think it's safe to say, L has a strong character and often tests the boundaries. I suppose he will soon start to find his poo fascinating, and it may end up on the walls if we're not careful.

That said, we love him very much and find things to coo over almost daily. He loves people watching at the playground and often strikes up "conversations" through incomprehensible sounds that resemble speech, complete with hand gestures. One parent asked me, "Is he speaking in English?" I shrugged and held up my hands. Whatever the language, it seems to work. Just today he charmed a little girl 2 years his senior to give him a chocolate wafer. That's what I call a Frenchman.

Weirrrrd

I don't know why, but sometimes when I type my blog URL into the URL thing, I get routed to an online Bible College, in embarrassingly garish colours. I can guarantee you I have nothing to do with that. Not sure why this happens, but I hope none of you have this problem.

Swimming and Begging

Went swimming for the first time in ages last week. It's been a long time since I've been in a 50-metre pool, and I was breathless after one lap. This one was in the massive Leo Lagrange sports centre, which, like almost everything, is only a 15-minute walk away. It is amazing how many activities are offered there, in addition to normal sports, there are courses for Capoeira, yoga, tai-chi, african dance, an art studio, a comic book studio, theatre etc.. A real change from London, where the nearest pool to us was closed for over a year and a half because it sprung a leak.

So I went back today, expecting to feel a little stronger and maybe actually do some sets. I was excited to swim again after only 5 days. It was the closest to "regular" I've been in the last 2 years. I knew it would be a real shock to the system after so long, but a far cry from the double morning and afternoon workouts of club and college swimming. I got to the front door and there were several people waiting around. It turned out the pool hadn't opened at the published hour and was opening 30 minutes later.

How French, I thought. Maybe people felt like taking an extra long lunch, as if the enforced one-and-a-half hour lunches weren't long enough!

Eventually, the ticket window opened and everyone gathered round. Not in a neat queue (line) like they would do in England, but amorphous, unorganised, more .... French. :) I got to the window and there were a number of people behind me. I was extremely conscious of that fact because I had many small coins in my pockets and would have to count them out when paying. And I am talking about a lot of 1 and 2-centimes coins. I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks as I counted them out at the window.

Then the woman at the window stopped. "Il vous manque 5 centimes."

My jaw dropped. My knees must have buckled. But it took me only a second to decide to turn SDF (homeless French) and beg for it. I turned around to the people behind me with the best puppy eyes I could manage. "Excusez-moi, avez vous 5 centimes pour donner?" (Am I begging? With bad French? Yes, I am. I want to swim! Look at me, I really need to swim!)

Two female students behind me stopped talking and stared at me. I was officially embarrassing everyone around me. Then the man behind them said, "Regardez!" and he stooped down to pick up a copper coin on the floor. How providential! Was it salvation in the form of a 5-centimes?

"Ah, c'est 1-centime," said the nice man, shrugging. He handed it to the lady at the window.

I thanked him and looked back at the people. The French people. I would have sung them the Marseillaise. "Est-ce que quelqu'un a 4-centimes?" I asked.

I felt about as large as an ant. Did I ask the right question? Was it grammatically wrong and impossible to understand? I wanted to tell them all how much it meant to me to swim again, how lovely their pool was, how bereft of good pools London is, how the chlorine beckoned, how my arteries were now probably nearly clogged with butter and bearnaise sauce and this might be the last chance to blast them clean with some sport.

The same nice man smiled and dug in his pockets and extracted a 2-centimes. I thanked him again. He seemed to dig in another pocket. I am not sure. Then miraculously, he placed in front of the window another 2-centimes. "Merci! Merci beaucoup!" I smiled with all 32 of my American teeth. I wanted to cry and hug the little man. But instead, I muttered, "Desolé" to the woman at the window, who scowled at me. (Who would want a begger in the pool? If she has no money, does she ever bathe? Or does she use the pool, our pool, to bathe?)

It was okay if I was a social leper. I got in. I was in. I was going to swim. Thank you, France, for letting me swim.

Still jobless

It's been little over two months now that we've been here. We are both still jobless, and while our savings cushion is still there, it's been depleted somewhat this past month with two family birthdays, the wedding of a close friend and several long car trips (petrol + tolls = a lot). We've looked at what we could cut back on, but there really isn't anything frivolous we can cut out. If I were alone I'd eat rice and beans for a couple weeks like I did in NY when my bank balance dipped to $100 and I was unemployed. But it's not possible with a family.

Obviously the answer is for one of both of us to get a job. Hubbie's recently been informed, in this town, one simply can't find a job the normal way, it has to be done through networking. So besides rewriting his CV and participating in a six-week skills assessment, Hubbie has started cold-calling people. The aim is not to get a job from the contact, but to develop rapport with the person and see if they have advice or other contacts to give. Which may or may not lead to a job. So needless to say, it could take a while. I've started looking for work as an English teacher/tutor, as even earning the SMIC (minimum wage) would be helpful. We figure if Hubbie doesn't see any progress by mid-Nov (at latest), we will start looking in Paris. Then it will probably mean the same line of work we had in London.

As a result of being neither here nor there, I have found it hard to commit to anything. That translates into having a lack of motivation in every area of life, except maybe cleaning and doing laundry. One lovely surprise: a French-American family going to the same church as us, with a son the same age as ours. They've been here for two years with Agape, a ministry to university students. The husband is French, transplanted in the States two decades ago, where he met his American wife. She's got her hands full with their three kids and ministry, but still managed to invite me over for lunch twice and made me feel more at home here in our uncertain situation, than I ever did in London. Maybe it's because she's a Southern Californian, or because her son is so close in age and disposition to mine. Maybe it's because she an American married to a French, and trying to come to grips with French culture, like me. Probably all of the above. It's providence to have her here, to be able to share American things like Cheerios, breakfast burritos and references to bag ladies. I haven't felt this American since I left in 2001. Above all of course, is the fact we have in common an identity in Christ. She's family.

Well that's a brief recap of the last two months. I wanted this blog to be more entertaining, but I am so bad at emailing friends that it usually ends up being a lengthy update akin to a list. I shall endeavour to write more frequently so I can tell you more about the day-to-day. If only I could write about life like Seinfeld episodes. I remember one where it was all about whether Seinfeld had picked his nose or not ("It wasn't a pick!"). Classic. I may be less gross, but we'll get there.

France at last...

It's been a month of ups and downs. Heres and theres. Farewells, bonjours. Closure, commencement. In our last month in London we were scurrying around until the very last moment we left. It was mind-numbing work to get everything done at the right time. It did all eventually fall into place (and that does not include the sale of the flat; however we have finally found a tenant, or at least a deposit from a tenant).

Now that we've physically made it here I have to watch myself or else I slip into holiday-mode. It has been at least 30 degrees celsius (86 F) every day since we got here, except today, but the sun still manages to come out and dry our clothes. In our sixth floor apartment we have a constant breeze and little street noise given the amount of traffic below. The Canal du Midi runs down the middle of the busy street, and Hubbie regularly jogs along its tree-lined banks. The farmers' market in the neighbouring quarter overflows with stalls of sweet peaches, juicy nectarines, immense cauliflower and courgettes, types of tomato I've never seen before, potatoes of all shapes, sizes and colour. The butcher and baker are just down the road and they always seem to want a chat (though I can't be sure, with my limited French). The building where we live is maintained and supervised by the omnipresent Jean-Marc, who put our surname on the postbox within two weeks of our being here. And we're only tenants! All these little details make me want to giggle like an idiot. I just find myself smiling sometimes, at nothing. Saying 'Bonjour' to every living thing coming towards me. I am in love with this town and this lifestyle. Is there anything wrong with that?

Well ... reality ... must ... eventually ... sink ... in.

One thing that made me realise we were not on holiday was when we queued up three hours at La Préfecture just to get a form. I embarrassed my husband with my immature display of raw self-righteous indignified anger. I raged against the machine, but no one heard me. No one understood me. They closed their ears. No one cared to sympathise. Someone even cut in front of us! And I was the only one who gave a toss! (Yes, in my 6 years in England I did learn how to queue, thank you.) When I confronted the person, I think I said "cue" instead of "queue", which could have been embarrassing in another way. After our brief encounter she cut in further up the line. That'll teach her. My husband instructively pointed out the statement "C'est la vie" may have originated from dealing with the French administration.

Well, my son just woke up screaming, so I need to go tend to him. A small dose of reality injected into my holiday blog.

Blesséd Monday

This is perhaps the first time in my life I am eagerly awaiting Monday's arrival. Monday will fly from France and touch down at 18:20, it will take a train and another train and then a bus and then it will come through the door and give us a big hug. We can't wait for Monday.

(Papa found us a flat and is coming home!)

"That's what they mean by the credit crunch."

Monday we had some bad news. The buyer can't afford the deposit required by the lender, as their lender increased the equity requirements (I heard it was above 20% now). So the buyer is trying to remortgage their current property to get the extra cash. We don't know how long that will take. The buyer has not been returning the estate agent's phone calls.

When I spoke to Doreen at the estate agent's today, she said, "This is what they mean by the credit crunch. It means the deposits get bigger. And then people can't come up with it, so the market slows down." Oh. I see. So this is how a macro economic trend can become a very real pain in the neck for little people like me.

We are a little worried. We wonder if we are making a huge mistake. Hubbie is feeling low and lonely out there alone. I am feeling tired and starting to warm to the idea of renting the flat rather than selling it. And if we go down that route, there is so much to be done to figure out how much we would have to rent it for in order to at least break even. The letting agents would charge 13% for managing the rent and property, the government would tax us as it's unearned income, we would need contents insurance, we would need to switch to interest-only payments rather than repaying the mortgage (£77), we would need to pay a £225 admin fee to the mortgage provider to apply to change our flat to a rented property. The costs add up, and I am not sure anyone would want to pay that much to rent our flat.

And did I mention I was logitically challenged?

So we need to trust God more than ever. I feel the quite natural impulse to rush around saving our plans to move, saving our savings, saving us. It would be a lie if I said I was trusting in the sovereignty of God right now. I am doubting now that he ever wanted us to move. We speak of seeing signs and confirmations from God as if we could know him in that way, his detailed thoughts and desires for our lives. We did that when we had an offer, we did that when we found a good Protestant church in the town we want to move to. But we never really know, do we? All we as believers can truly cling to is the fact he loves us and wants what's best for us, and in the end, in the very end of all things, it will all be made right. In the end this glitch in the market and glitch in our life plans will be put into its place, put into an eternal perspective. It's just a bit of a struggle doing that just now.

Papa

Hubbie left today for the south of France, to find us a flat. We parked the car and walked up the stairs to the station. We waited 10 minutes for the next train. I cried a little because I knew how much I would miss him. My 15-month-old son doesn't understand departures really; he just observed the trains with interest. He did not wave goodbye as he watched his Papa disappear behind the train doors, and he did not understand why I ran after the train a little ways with him in my arms.

An hour later in the park, he looked up at the spot on the bridge where his Papa often pokes his head out to play peekaboo with him. "Papa," he said, pointing his chubby finger and squinting into the fading sunlight. I wanted to cry. Hopefully it won't take too long to find a flat, and Papa will be back soon.

Prioritisation: It's Now or Never!

Well, it's already the end of July. Needless to say I am appalled at how long it has been since I last blogged. But as I sound like a broken record, I will skip that apologetic refrain and just dive in...

One of the biggest lessons I have come away with from this relocation so far is the fact that I am fearful of details. Not just details, but of practical details. Let me explain. Hubbie and I had a heart-to-heart because he has been making me very nervous. I told him, "You are making me feel very nervous, because you keep telling me in bits and bobs what I need to do, something new every night, or that I haven't done, or have not even thought of." He said, "I don't want to make you feel nervous. But I think I am nervous because you are making me nervous." This was because, he had said in not so many words, I was solely responsible for all the remaining logistics for our last month in this country. Hubbie will be in France for two weeks starting this Saturday to find us a flat, and then when he gets back we will only have one more week left to sort everything out. He found this prospect frightening because he caught me out on several occasions doing something way down the "priority list". For instance, I was on hold with the French consulate for 30+ minutes (ahhh, French bureaucracy) trying to change an appointment, when the priority had clearly been to send some documents to the solicitor so that the exchange would happen on time. As soon as Hubbie had pointed it out, I knew I had procrastinated subconsciously somehow. But why? What had happened to my priorities? I feel like I never get them right. I can plan and plan and plan, but somehow I always end up doing things in the wrong order.

I think my growth in this area was seriously stunted at the age of 5, when I did not finish the diary I was supposed to keep for summer vacation, and my mother did it for me the night before I started the first grade.

It may have been reinforced by the reports I used to throw together at the last minute and for which I still got A's.

It may have been further reinforced by the fact my primary weapon in battling my father was my strength of stubbornness in restating a general fact over and over with greater and greater passion, until he gave up and I thought I had won the argument.

It was shown to be a far-reaching problem in college (university), when I often ran out of time to read the text that the course was based on, and on a couple of occasions forgot to study for final exams.

It was further aggravated when I married someone who was pretty good at organising himself. And further still when I worked for someone who was meticulous about following up on my tasks. It drove me nuts.

And now it has come to a head. If I remain vague and wishy washy in this move, I will end up forgetting something huge. Like a bed. Or my son. I need to change. I need to CHANGE. I NEED to change.

So we started a list of priorities, complete with estimated completion dates for each task and Green/Orange/Red codes for how things are progressing. I feel like I am in the army. But I suppose this is what it takes to break a bad habit.

Holidaying in the South of France

We're into the second week of our 3-week holiday in the South of France. Yes, you Americans, that is pretty long. It's even long to us.

We spent last week with my brother and his family, who came all the way from Boston to Perpignan to be with us. They spent a week touring Italy and then hopped a plane to Marseilles and drove the rest of the way. Seeing them again for the first time in 3 years was a real blessing. They had never met our one-year-old in the flesh, except of course over Skype. Our little L got to know his two cousins, who are now 5 (Z) and 7 (J), and by the end of their stay, he was regularly giving them cuddles at random moments (exiting a carpark; entering McDonalds; etc). J and Z were such good sports. When we were otherwise occupied, they followed L around like little sentries and made funny faces at him to keep him from crying.

A peaceful, uneventful week? Not quite. The worst of it came when my brother and his wife took a day off to Barcelona, leaving Z & J with us, and my brother was outmanoeuvred by the Tire Slash Robbery Gang and lost his and J's passports. To get J a new passport, Hubbie and Papie had to drive him the 2 hours to Barcelona to make a physical appearance at the US consulate. My poor brother lost all his photos of Italy (which he took great pride in) and my sister-in-law thought this might be the last holiday she would ever have abroad (my brother was very upset by the robbery).

That same day, L came down with another nasty bug that kept his temperature up around the 40-degree mark for 4 days. It kept him up at night. That meant it kept us up at night. It didn't help that it was constantly higher than 30 degrees every day he was ill (that's close to 90 degrees Fahrenheit).

Hubbie insisted it was just teething again (as L had a very high temperature when his botton teeth appeared). But we finally called a doctor, who immediately came around to the house (a real perk of the French health system) and prescribed antibiotics for some sort of throat bug. L is feeling much better now though he still has a slight fever.

So although we are now in the South of France eating nice food and drinking nice wine, it is not such a big change for me, as I still chase after L all day and still do not seem able to blog or write much at all...

Oh and good news in case someone out there is following the Flat Sale. We have had confirmation that the buyer officially has their mortgage in place! Woohooooo! We are on our way!

Thé-eine

I can't sleep again. This time it's not because of stress but because of a cup of tea I had at 2 PM. Hard to believe one little cup of tea can do this much damage. I met a friend and we sat down in a Sainsbury café, so it wasn't high tea or anything fancy. The tea hadn't even been that good. It's about 1 AM and my legs feel like running down the street and across the Channel. Restless leg syndrome, my foot. It's what the French call "thé-eine." Or at least that's what my sister-in-law calls it. Kind of cute, isn't it? (If you didn't catch the similarity to "caffeine," don't worry, I didn't at first either).

It is sad that my blogs tend to be in the middle of the night. I try to keep my blog up-to-date, but it usually falls by the wayside. Partly because Certain People insist it is a waste of time. Certain People think I should spend every waking moment studying French.

Honestly, though, given the circumstance I think this is a great way to use my time. I am dead tired but I can't sleep. How better can my foggy head and bloodshot eyes be put to use? Let me count the ways. Watching tv - specifically, championship poker; a repeat of the evening news; or movies that are so old I can count the pixels in the picture? Uhmmmm.... I will stop there... it hurts trying to think of what else to do.

In fact, it has made me feel rather sleepy...

Oh, before I go, I should at least update you on our lives. Just on the off chance someone out there wants to know how the sale of our flat is going, we are still waiting for the buyer to get their mortgage linged up. It seems the lady who has made the offer is haggling with her mortgage provider, trying to get a better deal. I didn't think that was possible in these market conditions? Anyone think she's trying to pull a fast one? Anyhoo, we are waiting. While we are waiting for that, I am also waiting for our estate agent's useless "conveyancing broker" to send some forms through so that we can know who our solicitor is, fill out the forms and ensure whoever they are can act on our behalf to move this sale forward while we are away on our 3-week holiday (that's in about 30 hours' time). I put "conveyancing broker" in quotes because I am not sure what it is they actually do besides charge me a fee to hook me up with a conveyancer (aka solicitor, for you non-British folk). The more I think about it, the more I feel had. Stupid and had. Why did I go with our estate agent's "conveyancing broker"? Because I thought it would make things more efficient if everything was in-house. Little did I know they would just turn around and pick any old solicitor anyway. I feel so had.

Now my blood pressure has risen a few notches, so I am going to turn back to my non-practical, completely pointless ramblings which seemed to be making me sleepy.

In fact, I can think of nothing more to say, and trying to think of something to say has made me sleepy...

We got an offer!

We can hardly believe how fast it's happened, but the very first person who viewed our flat has made us an offer. Amazing. All that franctic redecorating I did for the second viewer was pretty pointless after all.

So now, the real madness starts.

I feel a bit overwhelmed, like all I want to do is bake muffins, like that girl on Grey's Anatomy.

I need to learn French... fast.
I need to sell some books and clothes on eBay.
I need to stop cooking so much fancy stuff and de-prioritise that in a big way.
I no longer need to look for a temp job (I guess?).
I need to open a bank account in France
I need to look into how to get a mortgage in France.
R needs to get a job in France... ASAP!

Oh Lord, please keep us from panicking.

Rice Pudding

Poor little L has had such a bad cold, and the runs to go with it. The doctor prescribed him a liquid electrolyte diet for the next 24 hours (that was last night). That means no milk and no solids (banana is apparently okay), just this awful-tasting stuff that is supposedly blackcurrant flavoured. Even cough medicine tastes better. L rejected it at first, but this morning it must have dawned on him that that was all he was getting. He quaffed 200 ml down in no time. Then we watched Thomas the Tank Engine (08:26) and then he started rubbing his eyes around 09:00. Normally, he wouldn't want to sleep until around 10:30. Of course, the illness is sapping his energy. But could I be starving him unnecessarily? Is this really how to treat the runs? I feel like his life force is dwindling, as if he were wasting away before my eyes. My son could typically be described as a Tasmanian Devil-type character. Yet today, even when he was playing in the living room, he put his head down on a cushion several times, as if his head was again too heavy for his neck.

Knowing he would be off this liquid diet tonight, I wanted to make him something special that wouldn't irritate his tummy. So I tried to make rice pudding. We had an unopened bag of Tesco pudding rice in the cupboard. I mixed 50 g of it with the specified amounts of milk and sugar, and sprinkled nutmeg on top. Then I saw the baking time -- 2 to 3 hours! What kind of rice takes that long to cook?? I set the oven timer to 2 hours, wincing at how much energy this bit of rice was going to use. There are people starving in South Asia who would probably kill for this rice, who probably know how to cook it using a pot, a bit of water and an open fire, and here I am using a million kilojoules to bake 50 g in milk and sugar.

Well, needless to say, I justified this use of energy by claiming it for my energy-less son. I hope he can stomach it.

Insomnia

Today was a real accomplishment. It took a lot of preparation to put together the 13 separate documents for the Home Office, and with the 5-and-a-half hours of waiting time and nail-biting moments of prayer culminating in, "NUMBER A76, PLEASE PICKUP YOUR PASSPORT AT WINDOW 44," I was almost certainly the happiest person in East Croydon. Now, I can legally temp and earn us some extra cash! I can start to write freelance articles again (if I ever work up the courage)! I can even cross the UK border without answering inane questions about my current employer! So, why am I still so wound up and unable to sleep, and writing my first blog at 4 AM?

Well, there is the sale of the flat, my joblessness, my fear of French (the language) and tomorrow night's dinner for 6 to prepare for (well okay, it's for 4, but we always cook with leftovers in mind). What weighs most heavily is the prospect of complete strangers coming into our home and sussing out whether or not they want it. People are coming to view it tomorrow! I was cleaning the kitchen until 11 PM, and made a list of what else needs cleaning before they arrive. I would like to start cleaning again... NOW. **Imagine obsessive-compulsive facial ticks here.**

I desperately need to relax, get my bearings and most importantly, trust God with the outcome. So what if our flat is littered with toys and too much furniture? So what if the walls are completely bare, naked of decoration, despite the fact we've been living here for 3 years? Even if I add/change/delete, potential buyers may not like it anyway. If it doesn't sell, there may be a reason we ought to stay in London.

Time to get back to the basics. Warm milk with a squeeze of honey sounds good.

Oh no, I just looked out the window and here comes the sun...