Luxury

Currently homeless, I couldn't bring myself to check into Number 16 for an indefinite stretch of time.  

I decided to slum it.

When I saw the decor however, my heart sank,

sank, 

sank.

Number 16 is but one-tube stop away.

  If I called for help, I might just get there in a jiffy, and Jon would understand.

I decided to get showered.  The bathroom is clean, and there are fresh towels, never mind the thread count.

So I shut the door.  

And the handle fell off completely.

And bits of the door crumbled to my feet.

And Bruno and I are stuck, locked upstairs.

Because my heart had already descended to my feet, there was no place else for it to go.  Which sometimes, I think, is a wonderful place to be- you know, down in the dumps.  For the next logical place to move one's spirits, surely is, up.

For some unknown reason, my cell was in my pocket.  I called the London Girls for help.  J secured the number to reception, I waited to be rescued.

While waiting, the memory of previous homes, came rushing back...

photo credit- The Business Times, Singapore

Help came!  But Help kept buzzing the front door downstairs.  How was I to answer that, when I was trapped upstairs?

I've been so fortunate to have lived my married life in some gorgeous spaces.

photo credit- The Business Times, Singapore

Surely I could brave the current abode for a few weeks?

Huddled in the cold on a piece of worn cardboard, by the nearest tube station, is a man and his dog, while here I was, secured, in a room with central heating, listening to Help buzz on and on.

There's a kitchen space on the lower level; I can improvise meals and feed Summie when she gets in.

There are hangers, an iron, an ironing board, and laundry facilities in the basement.  Everything is kept tidy.  Service is kind, waiving the mandatory dog fee for us.  The trash is removed daily.  If I keep the curtains pulled open, some light has a chance to slide in.  It is also less noisy here, and did I mention, free wifii is provided?

Gosh, Bruno.  We are living in luxury!

Luxury-  Citadines, 35A Gloucester Road, SW7 4PL

Shikata ga Nai

RELIEF!  The movers showed up!  At the appointed time!

They glanced at my flat and asked who did all the packing.  

C'est moi!!!

You packed the mirror as well?  Wow, good job!

Pleasantries over, I was eager to get on with things.  I mean, how difficult can the moving of 500 sq feet be, especially when the last inhabitant, c'est moi, lived so minimally, and already did the bulk of packing?

15 minutes later, I was asked if I would like some coffee because they were going to head out for a coffee break.

At this point, I noted that 2 dining chairs and the kitchen table were wrapped up.  My bed had been successfully dismantled. From my perspective, there was an obvious cultural misunderstanding going on.

Coffee break?

In Japanese, the phrase is, Shikata ga Nai.  Somethings just can't be helped.  Often the phrase is used to describe an extreme act of God, of nature; something tragic, irrevocable occurring.  Like the earthquake, or the internment of Japanese Americans during WWII.

Coffee Break?  Shikata ga Nai yo!

So Bruno and I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

The London girls kept us company:

Welcome to England, said TJ.

Obligatory my dear!  Great British tradition!  Did you hear how they lost Singapore during WWII?  (Oh, SF, how you make me laugh!)

If you ever need a mover again, I have got a reliable contact, assured J.

At least they came! -B

Should have told you about Van Girls...None of that coffee break, smelly male BO nonsense- K.

Shikata ga nai.

Finally about 10am, they returned.  They came back!!!  Relief!

I observed that they are actually very nice folks, and worked well as a team.  I observed that they were truly working hard; I could hear them panting away, sweat was visible, and twice, they asked to use my bathroom.

I observed that without leadership, the best of teams may lose momentum and sight of the goal.  The goal to me at 500 pounds (per trip) + 20% VAT + 90 pounds to the Council for the right to park their van on my street, is a simple one.  Please lets get out of my flat before lunch.  Because I still need to  mop up, hand over keys, turn all power off, and sit my post-advance yoga-ed, sleep-deprived body down to imbibe.

One of them accidentally dropped and broke part of my closet.

Shikata ga nai.  

I uncoiled myself, re-arranged Bruno, strapped him to my body.

Against my husband's wishes, I pitched in.

For many hands make light work.  And sometimes, men just work better, when directed by a dragon.

(Lemonade)

After Jon left, I allowed myself one very weepy day, in the company of my sweet, young friend, TJ.

We met at Le Vieux Comptoir in Marylebone- a new favourite for me.  Casual and authentically French (food, staff, patrons), off the main High Street, sited right beside a small park- all positives when dining with Bruno.

We ended the weepy day with a long walk through the park home.

By this time, Jon had arrived in Singapore, and sent me a text to make me laugh.  Something about the weather being all hot, humid and hazy, and the PSI level- Baby, you won't be able to breathe!

Sadness and pain experienced and put aside, there was much to do this week.

I learnt that in London, it is not so easy nor straightforward to wrap up a home and leave...

The packing was the easiest part!

Try to disband services with Thames Water, British Gas, EDF, and changing one's address with the bank and post office?  Woah. 

(I guess when life throws you lemons, as my American friends would say, make lemonade.)

I decided to fortify myself by attending advance yoga class this morning.  I needed to still my mind, push my body.  I needed to warm myself up for the challenge of the physical move today.  I boldly ignored the fact that the last time I stepped on a mat was possibly a month ago.

In the end, I made three trips.  Each time I carried two items.  I used all modes of transport- cab, tube, bus.  Yoga gave me heroic strength.  It also made me very hungry.  By 17:00hrs, I had to sit down and re-fuel.

(Lemonade tastes a little sour, a little sweet.  Served with chunky or crushed ice and sliced fruit especially in the summer, it does an excellent job, quenching thirst.)

Goodbye, W2.

J'adore Mon Mari

                                                                              You-

busied yourself with so many little things today because I know you care.  While I was out, you scrubbed the bathroom, the kitchen sink, wiped counters down, vacuumed, mopped, removed trash.  You walked Bruno so I could get to class on time.  You took care of lunch, you took care of dinner.  When the last box was packed, I said, how I wished I was boarding the plane with you tonight, and you shook your head, talked about the PSI level in Singapore, and said, Baby, you're not happy there.

At Heathrow I watched you depart; your height, your kind, handsome face, your arms waving one last time at me.  I want to hold you, I want you to hold me back.  I have no idea why this last sighting of you persists even now, when you are no longer here, wounding, me.

At French class this morning, I learnt the difference between aime and adore.  When asked what my passion or likes are, I replied, J'adore le cheval et le chien.

Now that you are far away, I hope you can hear me say, Baby, J'adore mon ami, J'adore mon mari.  For never in my life have I ever experienced a love that envelopes so tightly, and yet remains a love that sets me free.

Elizabeth Street

On Elizabeth Street, we found something for him-

Jeroboams, 50-52 Elizabeth Street

and him.

Mungo & Maud, 79 Elizabeth Street

Busy

We've been really busy, exploring bits of London that I like, and that he is less familiar with.  The past few days were spent in the north.

Coffeeworks, Camden Passage

The Fish and Chip Shop, 189 Upper Street

The last time I ate here, Spice was in town.  I love that they are dog-friendly, and service so welcoming.

On Monday afternoon, Bruno and I paused to film 5-minutes for Reality TV.

Director's voice-  Walk through the park!  Act natural!  We need more close-up shots of Bruno!

Ah.  Production work. How much I love thee! 

I learn that the sight of me in production, stirs him deeply.

Supine on the couch watching, I hear him, the man of few, few words, declare his love many times over.

Baby, you're amazing!  Baby, don't you need to rest?  Baby, you did all that?  Baby, you make it look so easy!  Baby, I love you!

LOVED!

Oh Baby?  Did you pack away the corkscrew?

(Yes.  I did.  But had the sense to not seal that box, just yet.)

Yesterday, we found Le Vieux Comptoir at 20 Moxon Street.

There's retail on the ground floor, intimate, casual French dining on the lower ground floor.

NO TOURISTS in sight either!  What a great find!

Cheese platter for ten pounds, yummy vino, home-baked bread,

patterned tiles, toile and shabby chic furniture, bathed in natural light.

Together

 Boxes, packing tape, bubble wrap, make me happy.  

I'm good with moving.  I like editing my life.  I don't get stuck, sentimental with stuff.      Sometimes this trait of mine, worries Jon.  He thinks at any moment, he might just be left behind.

So the man who never bothered wooing me, decides impulsively-  Baby?  I am coming to London!  To help you!  I should be there!  You shouldn't be doing this all alone!

(Note:  Even in a long-distance marriage, we are still allowed to get upset, with each other.)

My texted reply was curt.  Don't Come.

He of course then calls me, and I find myself getting angrier and angrier as I explain why it is such a bad idea for him to come.  For starters, where on earth is he going to live, when I myself, am going to be homeless in 16 days?

As my anger rises like a fever, his voice gets hard like ice. 

 Don't shout at me.  Don't shout at me, he says.  I am trying to help you.

I can't slam a cell phone down.  I can only press one button.  The pressing of button lacks the energy of a slam.

He calls back.  Why do you have to always hang up on me?

The thing about being married to your best friend is that the anger doesn't quite stretch beyond, oh, 10 minutes.  In a while, we are giggling, teasing each other and in another minute, we are both trying to meet each other, in the middle, someplace, somewhere.

Ok, Baby, you can come, while I still have housing, I say.

Ok, Baby, just tell me when works best for you, he says.

Ok, Baby, you should come this week, I say.

Ok, Baby, no problem, let me get on it, he says.

An hour later, he sends me his flight information (this Saturday!  5:55am arrival!), talks me through arrangements he's made with work, care for Angel dog, dinner with his parents and guests, ride to Changi Airport.

It's meant to be, he says happily.  I'm meant to come!

photo credit-  Andrew Lum, 2012

What he means to but never says, is-

We're meant to be.  We're meant to be, together.