I am about to put on my 6th layer. I am absolutely, totally Freezing (note the capital F). It is 11am on Wednesday morning, I have only been home for 30 minutes and yet my toes are numb and my fingers are rapidly starting to seize up (so whether I finish this post in one sitting is debatable). Even my bum cheeks are chilled.
I fear that if I remain in this position, I will have hypothermia before the end of the day.
This week we celebrated Little Bear’s birthday. It was his ninth birthday. Hoorah.
Little Bear is not a cute pet name for either of my children. Little Bear is exactly that, a little bear. Little Bear is J’s favourite, most special teddy. The teddy that if it ever got lost would cause J and, therefore the rest of the family, the maximum amount of heartache and distress.
Twelve days we have been living in our own house. I love it. I am a grown up again. I wander around the rooms in wonder that this is the place I now call home. I have told my Mum that I will have to be carried out of this house, she is not amused and thinks I have now jinxed this delightful pile of bricks and mortar (I had my fingers crossed the whole time so of course I didn’t).
The only thing missing from this picture is a glass of Scrumpy cider then it would perfectly embody Somerset – skittles, straw and Scrumpy. Two out of three ain’t bad though.
Repatriation. You’d have thought that this would be the easy part, except that it isn’t. Having made sure that the first couple of weeks back in the UK were packed with things to do and people to see we have now arrived at the horrid realization that we have no home, none of our belongings, none of our clothes. Everything is the same, but everything is different too.
We have only been away for eleven months and so nothing looks, sounds or smells dramatically different to how it was a year ago. But.
This green and pleasant land. Home.
So, there I was. Stood in the middle of the room, with tears cascading down my face, which I was desperately trying to hide, but having no hope of doing so thanks to the deluge that had suddenly sprung the depths of my emotional being. The children were looking, nay staring, at me with a cross between bemusement, concern and, was that a hint of embarrassment on young T’s face?
“Why are you crying Mummy?”
*sniff* “I’m…” *sob* “just so…” *sniff* “happy! Grandma and Grandad are coming.” *sob* *sob* *sniff*
This was only one week after we had left the UK – it had been an emotional first week in Switzerland – and we were stood in the Arrivals hall at Zurich Airport. Fast forward one week later and it wasn’t just me with tears trickling down cheeks as we said our goodbyes.
Helping you connect with young people
Photography by Oliver Jordan.
a crafty club
Adventures in family life
Life of Ryrie 