Not so zen after all

You know how last week I was being all philosophical and zen about embracing what life throws at you? Well that was then. Now I want to curl up in the foetal position and cry. A lot. I am a reasonably anxious person. Not as anxious as I used to be but still a lot more worrier than warrior. Especially, it seems, in the face of change.

Uninhibited and dangerous

Today marks the first birthday of my daughter. It's been twelve months since I made my contribution to the world's population. To celebrate, rather than share a blow by blow description of my labour I thought it would be fitting to share with you our home video of the birth, documenting every last minute of it.

Doesn't that sound wonderful?? No that sounds hideous. Hideous and long. Something I wouldn't inflict on anyone. Least of all you kind people who take the time to visit me here. No there is no video and there will be no details of the birth. Except that it was looooooong. Instead I thought I'd reflect on a few things I've learned since this day last year.

A compromising situation

Recently writing a very short synopsis of my career dredged up some unwelcome but familiar feelings. Fear, dread, inadequacy and a bit more fear.

Almost two years ago I gave up a job I loved for the person I love. When it comes to my working life, that is the troublesome sentence. We moved from Sydney to Oxford for my husband to complete a masters degree. Writing that now I'm acutely aware the move involved some sacrifice. Back then, I didn't gave it a moment's thought. 

Liberty in London

As much as I adore my long-coveted Gigi Storksak baby bag – a treasured gift from treasured friends - I also delight in the times I can skip out the door unencumbered by my big bag. These days nothing feels quite as liberating as a nearly empty handbag. So imagine my joy this morning. Not only was my handbag carrying just a wallet, phone and lipgloss but I was hopping aboard a train headed for London accompanied by my mum. All the way from home.

Of Mice and Men

I like those moments where it feels – in some weird way, in some small way - like the universe is talking to me. A while back this happened when twice in as many weeks, I clicked on Sarah Wilson's blog to discover her latest post was dissecting a topic which was - in that moment – the most pressing thing on my mind. Both were innocuous but I found them strangely cathartic.

Towels in the dryer

Whilst on holidays I stumbled upon a little gem of a book that delighted me for a few days. It's called The Shops and is written by India Knight, an English journalist and author that I adore. It's part memoir part shopping guide – which made me wonder could a finer premise for a book exist??

She says it's written for people like her who love shopping so much that they luxuriate doing the weekly run around the supermarket, as much as it's for her polar opposites. To convince them to cross the divide.

Schadenfreude

It wasn't out of the goodness of my heart but on Wednesday I made at least 14 people feel really good about themselves. I trialled a new music group for babies. There is no doubt in my mind, no matter what else happened in their days, they'd all be content thinking "Well at least I'm not that mother from this morning". That mother is me.

I know what babies are like in group settings. Some days they're great, other days they're not, but there's usually one little person creating so much calamity for their poor mother that the entire class can't help but feel just a tiny bit grateful that today it's not their little person.

A night to remember

As far as memorable evenings go, this was one of my best. A year on I can still recall the details we discussed, the speech he made and the indelible impression he left. It was a night spent with my husband but on this occasion he was happily outshone.

It was an annual event, a formal dinner held in the dining hall of University College, one of the three oldest Oxford colleges dating back to 1249. I approached the night with trepidation. In all honesty I was not looking forward to going.

My husband was making a speech which meant we were seated at the high table rather than the tables filled with our friends. A few days before the dinner, he informed me the table setting had me smacked between a lord and the president of the club. I was a little daunted. Frankly my conversation at that point was limited.

I was 36 weeks' pregnant and barely able to go thirty minutes without mentioning one of the frightening facts I'd read that day in What to Expect When You're Expecting. I was fairly certain my dining companions and I could safely expect imminent death by boredom.

Something’s missing

Unlike my Dad whose philosophy when travelling is to never visit the same place twice, I take great comfort in the familiar. Even when I'm visiting somewhere new for a few days I quite like to at least get my coffee from the same place.

Here in Oxford my love of the familiar is easily satisfied. You see there is only one café that serves coffee which is a pleasure to drink. I love to drink coffee. Truly love it.

But, like anyone with taste buds, I can distinguish between a cup of steaming smooth deliciousness and a cup of boiling bitter fetidness. For me there is only joy in the former. In the UK, for reasons I cannot completely grasp, 97 per cent of the coffee available falls firmly into the latter category*.

Conversation starters

Earlier this year we escaped the UK during the coldest part of winter and spent five weeks in Australia. It was wonderfully manic as we caught up on 18 months' with friends and family. One question, or at least a similar version, arose in virtually every exchange I had. How is life in Oxford?

Oddly enough, when we arrived back here this came up in conversation with several of our Australian friends who had also headed home for the break, and faced the same question. It's such a simple query, but none of us knew where to start. I realise it was not intended to be probing and in most cases the asker was hoping for a short succinct answer. Which is hardly my forte. I like using as many words as possible. So if they were wanting short, they'd asked the wrong person.

My answers varied wildly depending on the person asking and the time available to fill. As time went on I didn't get any better at responding. I didn't know how to articulate my take on life here. Five months on, having devoted many many minutes of thought to the topic, I'm just about ready to conquer it.

A daily delight

Soon we will move from the UK back to Australia. The relocation is causing me mixed emotions. I'm looking forward to being closer to my family and friends, to the climate, to the familiar and the many and varied things that make Australia the wonderful place it is.

I'm also sad this chapter is closing. We started married life here, we started our family here, we've made lovely friends here and somewhere along the road Oxford started to feel like home.

It certainly didn't feel like that when we arrived. I found those first few months unsettling. I wasn't a visitor but I wasn't a local. I needed directions to get around, I didn't know where to get my groceries, or where to find a doctor, or get a decent coffee. Yet I was a resident.

What a day

I entertained the idea of not writing about it briefly before deciding that was irreconcilable with my well documented fixation. At the risk of overkill, I'll share my thoughts on The Wedding.

Partly I'm doing this to alleviate the sinking feeling inside my heart. I thought I felt dejected when I wasn't invited. That was nothing compared to the melancholy (and envy) which flooded through my bones last night as I realised that for me, it was over.

Not so for the Duke and (divine) Duchess of Cambridge and their closest friends and family, who had the final - and likely - most fabulous part of their celebration ahead. As that dark car whizzed the wedded pair from Clarence House to Buckingham Palace, I conceded defeat. I could watch the coverage no longer. The day was done.