by Bron | April 14, 2015 3:07 am
Those of you who catch up with me on Facebook already know that my husband Alan and I are relocating to Wellington, New Zealand as the first leg of our adult adventure. We are so fortunate to have dual citizenship in UK/Europe, so our adult adventure extends beyond Wellington’s glistening harbour. Our loose plan is to spend some years in Wellington, then move to my husband’s birthplace in Edinburgh. Alan will work in CEO roles and I will train, write and test wine quality. Not necessarily in that order either…
After that, our plan gets looser. Right now we are thinking of a stint in the south of England, perhaps Plymouth or Folkestone. Which in Bron-speak can quintessentially also mean Bordeaux or Mykonos. Regardless, we have decided our final resting spot will be Spain. Anywhere I can drink wine before noon, jangle an inordinate quantity of bangles on my wrists and float along in excessive white linen garments is my “Ole”.
Alan set full steam into the NZ job search market and, what with those Kiwi folk being pretty savvy talent spotters and what have you, he is again a CEO. He’s back to this first love, aviation, and I love how happy he is.
I wasn’t as happy that he left Brisbane in January to start his new job while I bided my time working, waiting for our slime-ball real estate agents to earn their commission. But it seems an unconditional contract is on the table. Phew. My belongings and I must vacate Cook Castle around the middle of May.
So now, I find myself no longer gainfully employed, but instead flying frequently to Wellington, actioning plans for my next business venture and, when back in Brisbane, spending an inordinate amount of time alone in my marital home.
Which has, in turn, led to a slow decline back into some of my long-forgotten Secret Single Behaviour.
Do not be alarmed. By single I don’t mean going on dates or joining RSVP or watching endless re-runs of Sex And The City in a futile attempt to gain inspiration from Samantha.
It’s more like eating brie and basil dip for dinner at 11pm, whilst washing it down with a hefty glass of sav blanc. Or waking at 2am, missing the joy of my husband in bed beside me, and mainlining episodes of Breaking Bad till dawn breaks.
Eating alone has never ever bothered me. Just ask Gino and Tony how many times they have prepared a solo table for me at Pane e Vino. But there’s a difference between eating alone when single, versus eating alone when your regular dining companion is more than 3000 kilometres away.
I was single for many many years (those confounding years in torturous relationships with difficult men do not count). During that time, I became most adept at eating alone. But since meeting Alan, it doesn’t hold the same appeal.
I miss you darling.
At night I secure all the entry points of our house. I spend a bit of time wondering if my gorgeous neighbours will lend me their German shepherd. I’ve moved a small desk and my laptop into our over-sized bedroom which has Foxtel, air con and an ensuite. So into my room I go and I pretty much don’t move for 10 hours.
As I write this, I counted nine pairs of heels littered on the floor, seven water bottles on my bedside table (six of which contain no water), and two half-full wine glasses. Why two glasses? Because tonight, when I got home from a training seminar at 9.20pm, I was desperate to watch the season five opener of Game Of Thrones. So I poured two glasses of wine, turned off the lights and retired to my bedroom, comforted by the knowledge I wouldn’t have to venture out for a refill.
I stack the mail up and open it once a week (don’t tell Alan). My smoothie blender, egg cooker, skillet and toaster haven’t been put away since I waved farewell to Al. I stay up till 5am writing (yes I’m writing a book…) and sleep till 11am.
I close my windows, search for Night Fever by the Bee Gees on YouTube, and replay it 27 times while I attempt to replicate Travolta’s disco moves.
Three times now I’ve been to bed without a shower. Twice I ate nothing all day but Weet-Bix. And once I cried so hard I thought my chest would split.
There was also an entire weekend when I didn’t bother with a bra. But it was ok. I get the paper delivered and I had enough milk.
It’s a kinda half life. Half my life is over the ditch and the other half is here in Brisbane. Every jacket, scarf and pair of boots I own now reside in Wellington. Every sleeveless summer dresses and strappy pair of stilettos I own now reside on ebay.
Mercifully just a couple more weeks till I am a Kiwi import. I’ve got some things to sell on Gumtree (let me know if you want to buy my car) and I am still teaching my cat to meow in Maori. And I desperately need to clear all the soft cheese out of the fridge before the removalists do their thing.
You know, for so many years there, I ticked the single box. More particularly, the single mother box. I carelessly left high heels around my place and ate copious quantities of Weet-bix. I set my own hours, refuted anyone’s judgement and answered nobody’s questions.
Except one pivotal question. The one that goes along the lines of “Will You Marry Me?” I effortlessly surrendered my Secret Single Behaviour and started ticking the Mrs box.
Suppose I better start on boxing up those shoes.
(Credit to my talented, inspirational and big-hearted friend Al, who coined our phrase “adult adventure”. It’s become our brand xo)
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