Chapter 4-The migrant journey continues

This week I have been battling with ‘stuff’ . Yes, all the stuff we have accumulated over the years. Essential stuff, comfy stuff, sporty stuff, nice to have stuff, ‘I forgot to throw away’ stuff, lost and found stuff, ‘things I didn’t know I had’ stuff, ‘things OH bought forgetting that he already had one’ stuff, medical stuff, toysy stuff, booksy stuff, and a lot of other stuff. 

I’ve been rummaging,digging, pulling, washing, wiping, throwing(yes even that—though you wouldn’t tell from what remains),organizing, sorting, piling, boxing, cleaning, and doing all sorts with all sorts of stuff. All this is in prep for the shippers due next week. They are supposed to make it easy and pack everything for us ready for storage and shipping but I now feel I might have been better off doing the packing myself for all the effort its taking to sort things and organize them so that I know what’s where when we reach the end of this journey. Okay, I maybe obsessing a bit here but guess I am entitled to, after all this.

So now there is no mistaking the fact that we are on the move—yes again. If one good thing is coming out of this it will be that we have now lightened our load tremendously—about a decade worth of stuff has been sorted and sifted thoroughly(at least as thorough a couple of hoarders can be). Next we need to pack our bags and start our journey into the unknown. We have made no plans so that helps. Once our stuff goes into storage we are free—free to do as we please with our time and decide what we would like to do and where we would like to go.

Do we visit dear friends who have asked us to stop by? Or do we go farther afield and do a bit of touring? When I mentioned friends I just remembered something – friends feature very highly in a migrant’s life. They ARE the family we create for ourselves in the land of the unknown. They come in all colours and shapes, all peculiarities and tastes. But one thing for sure is they will have your back if in need. Sometimes comparing them to family could be misleading – because for some, family may not be the people who will watch your back but rather from whom you need to be watched!(smiley here and I'm not talking about my dear family)

So for any would be migrants out there—remember—always make and cultivate friends –wherever you go. The best way to do that is to be a good friend yourself. Be there for people—some may use you but over time you will be able to sort the wheat from the chaff so don’t worry. Be genuine, be yourself and give to others how much you can comfortably give. Love in good measure and listen to what they say. Listening is too underrated – it’s a valuable life skill which is never taught. So teach yourself some of that—how to listen with your heart and how to be empathetic.

I’ve been blessed – for the many friends that the good Lord has given me. Just as essential a suitcase is for The Journey, is the friend for life’s pit stops!

Chapter -3 Middle England.

Now for someone not familiar with my beautiful belle England, the term Middle England would not mean much.
In actual fact, though Middle England could be taken to mean the geographical middle of England which is now called the Midlands, its rightful place of 'honour among terms' comes from the sociological allusions it casts.The irony is I probably might have aligned myself alongside the Middle England had I not come to live here!
BBC's Home Editor, Mark Easton puts it like this - "Middle England, one supposes, is a comfortable place, neither rich nor poor. Conservative. Law-abiding. Decent. It is in the middle."

The aspiring lower middle class and middle class Daily Mail readers who holiday at Centreparcs whilst in the UK and in the south of France and Switzerland for their European fix; who come from hard-working stock and don't take kindly on the benefit recipients, and most importantly are almost homogeneously white middle class British in whose ranks no minority might find a place. Well, as mentioned earlier--these are just some of the sociological allusions to the term. And like all allusions and generalisations there are exceptions galore to every statement.
 You may be wondering why  I said I may have aligned myself alongside middle England had I not come to live here. Honestly they are nice people. They are polite, courteous and the epitome of 'Englishness'. They are the people who have made speaking without words into an art form in itself. And the unspoken, as we all know, speaks the loudest.
 Having got used to the forthrightness of the Yorkshire man (and woman) and the absolute down to earth easy camaraderie of the Irish-English descendants in North Lincs, Middle England seemed to be an entire world away that communicated in a totally different language - a language I knew I could grow to learn, but one which I wasn't keen to.
Middle England provides a lot of stereotypes for the global love affair with England--most of our favourate characters from childhood lived in Middle England. Next time you see Miss Marple or read Christies' novels, remember that there is a 'place' called Middle England, a place where the sun will never set and where the world will never be put quite right again!

The Migrant Journey. Chapter 2 - Suitcases

A quintessential part of a migrant’s journey is the suitcase. If suitcases had mouths, what tales would they have told?

Our journey too began with a few suitcases. To think that one can condense an entire life into a few suitcases seems unimaginable now—but that’s how a migrants life begins - as long as airlines have baggage restrictions anyway!

Our suitcases were crammed with clothes, books and toiletries. Everything to help us get by for the first few weeks. This initial phase of seeming sparsity is soon followed by the next phase -- the dreaded phase of acquisition. My OH attacked Phase 2 with a vengeance. New country, new job, payslip with £ signs, coupled with a sense of new found freedom and being the master of one’s own destiny in a new land makes a heady cocktail recipe for retail therapy. Our once sparse two bed townhouse couldn’t have been packed in 10 suitcases 6 months down the line. I must confess that much of our initial largesse were of the essential kind — kitchen stuff, bedding(my wonderful king-size 13.5 tog duvet with matching duvet covers and curtains that I still have), Christmas tree and decorations, etc etc.

But as time went on purchases went from ‘need to have’ to ‘nice to haves’. Then came the kids! They were the perfect excuse for some more expensive clutter. House moves now required specialist removal firms as our contents couldn’t be ferried by our mere car (and this was even without any furniture, mind you)! We always rented furnished homes so it was just our ‘stuff’ that needed to be moved.

After living in innumerable rented homes over several years we finally decided to buy our own home. And this we did with great precision and planning. Even ordering our sofas before exchanging contracts! All home owners may remember the thrill that comes with owning your first home (in actual fact nowadays the bank owns it and you pay them for the privilege). The thrill is closely followed by the exhilaration at the prospect of shopping for the new home. We were like excited kids masquerading as mature adults – trying to do the responsible thing and shopping wisely, looking for bargains and deals, putting quality and safety before bling and so on and so forth. One thing I can tell you is that this ‘mature adult’ thing is overrated. Now that I’ve overcome the ‘having to prove oneself’ phase I can say that loud and clear.

I’ve read somewhere that an Englishman’s home is his castle. Is it true? I know not. Life in our 3 bed home was comfortable and met our needs but was a far cry from being a castle – but that maybe because I’m not an Englishman! It was where we built our small family, shared our joys and sorrows, overcame great adversity, praised the good Lord with joy and triumphed with fortitude – it was our home. The first place I felt like home in a long while.

This sense of belonging is a funny thing. It does not succumb to prescribed rules, but has a heart and soul, rhyme and reason, all of its own. An industrial town in North Lincolnshire with low social index scores might have been an unlikely candidate for the accolades I grew to bestow.

One day when I go far back into the past I’ll tell you that story - why my birth place had never felt like home for a long while in my life. Being the perpetual migrant that I am many other places have I called home and in England this was my home. We were lucky to live in a great parish with a very welcoming and friendly parish priest. The parishioners seemed to take after him and were always full of joie de vivre. One felt welcomed from day one and we soon were part of the local community. Fortunately we were able to give to our community in proportion to what we received from it.

But like all goodbyes this one too finally came along – we knew it’s time to fly, but not without a heart rending sigh!

On hind sight this was the beginning of the end of this phase of our life. We had decided that we needed to move for better educational and professional opportunities. We made the move, heart wrenching as it was, to the heart of middle England. It took me ALL of three days to realize that middle England was never going to be home. But where will be?

Bye for now—until next time. Ciao.