This isn’t a weird thought. Instead, this is therapy for me. So please indulge me. This is me pouring out all the thoughts in my head at the moment in the hope that it will make me feel better. I’ve had a hard few days and I need to share. First, the background.
We’ve been grumbling and rumbling about moving house for just over a year now. When our eldest found out he had a place at a grammar school 40 minutes away we first seriously talked about the prospect of a move. We had casually talked about it before when he decided to take the exam for the grammar school. But once he had a place, the conversation went up a level. When we did have that first serious conversation, my reaction was to burst into tears (this was last March). I was happy for our son but upset about the prospect of moving. I didn’t want to move. In my mind, it was imminent. I wasn’t even close to being mentally or emotionally ready. I had only just about stopped grieving for our move from Charlbury to Shrewsbury (and that took me five years to accept fully!). But then time passed. I returned to that happy place of denial. We got on with life. A whole year has now passed. We have spent this last year making the house a little prettier, partly for ourselves and partly for a ‘future’ move that didn’t ever seem to appear. It was just that, a ‘future’ move. It was transparent. It wasn’t set in stone.
The problem I have now is that that ‘future’ has now arrived. Last weekend we all realised that there is nothing now to stop us moving. The house is as pretty as it is likely to get. So last week, after a couple of days of realisation, we decided that it was time to contact The Estate Agents. The ‘future’ was just about still at that point the ‘future’. In many ways, even last week I was still in denial. However, yesterday those Estate Agents came round. They appeared in their suits and with their leather brief cases. They sashayed into the house with their shiny shoes and ‘ooh lovely original features’. They had come into the house, invited, looked around, and made judgements. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like them. How dare they?
My reaction to these visitors? I was a mess. I was an emotional wreck all day. I cried four times in total. Why? Because although my head sees the need to move, my heels are struggling to dig themselves out of the ground. For my children, I accept the need to move. But for me, I love my life here. I love it. I really do. I am happy. Content is me. I have friends. I have purpose. I am busy. I just love it. I’m a school governor, I’m the publicity stroke marketing guru for the school PTA (or Friends of Crowmoor as they are called). I have lots of friends whom I am extremely fond of. I may only see them twice a day and often we only exchange vague pleasantries but they mean the world to me. I go to Zumba once a week. (And yes, I shed a tear at Zumba last night but thankfully nobody noticed.) I love Zumba. It defines my Mondays. I love Shrewsbury. I love the fact I can zip into town on my scooter and get myself a coffee within ten minutes of leaving the house and be in Waterstones shortly after. I love the atmosphere here. I’ve met so many weird and wacky, normal and kind, amazing and wonderful people. I love the fact that our cat is called ‘dirty bit of grit on the floor’ in Salopian. I love the cobbly streets, the quirky shops, the weird-sounding Meole Brace which I still call Melrose Brace. And I just feel at home here. This is my home. It’s taken me eight years, but it is firmly my home.
But we have to move. I fully accept that. And a good chunk of me is excited about it. New house. New roots. New environment. And I have every confidence that we will find a nice new place to live, a house just as lovely as this one. I am sure I will meet more lovely people who will become friends. I accept that I will form new bonds and have new experiences.
I can’t expect my son to commute for seven years, leaving at 7.15am and back at 5.30pm (that’s on days he doesn’t have a club). The boy is exhausted. If the next boy goes to the same school (which he would like to) then living here is even less sensible. But emotions and common sense are not good bed fellows. My life is governed by my heart, not my head. So I am struggling at the moment.
This is only the first stage in the process. Tomorrow we are going to tell one of the chappies with shiny shoes ‘yes, you can try to sell our house’. So the sign will go up. But the end isn’t quite here yet. The last time we decided to move house it took two years (hindered slightly by a flood). So watch this space. But, dear Shrewsbury friends, if I suddenly burst into tears for no apparent reason over the next few weeks, this blog explains why. When the times comes to leave, miss you all, I will. Back to visit? Oh yes. That is, if you will have me.