Is that it, then?

So... this is it, then?

I need to check in at Heathrow in about ten hours. The last few weeks, during which the activity levels on this blog sank, I know, I have been sorting through cupboards and drawers I didn't even know I had. Fixed four gas leaks after seven visits of engineers. And had a whole lof of liquid lunches and afternoon-running-into-late-evening-and-last-train-home sprizters. It's mainly been sunny and nice, and I have been walking through the streets of London thinking "this is not so bad, no it's not" while my inner rationalist says "that's because for once in your life you are not working in London. London is just different when you have spare time in it; a parallell London opens up and you better enjoy it because it's not going to last!".

The flat is mainly packed and gone. Left is the furniture and the urge to strangle an estate agent. Actually that may not be entirely true: an urge to strangle a whole office full of them. I am leaving tomorrow with a suitcase, a laptop and yoga-mat.

It feels weird.
Someone asks me if I feel British now.
"My liver does," I reply.

I am not sure what I'll be doing for three weeks on my own. There is only so much yoga I can do in one day (60 minutes usually does it for me); but I am trading away a big buzzing city with lots of people I know, to a smaller city where I can count everyone I know on one hand and still not use all my fingers.

I have a feeling it's going to be weird. Maybe a little quiet. Too quiet?

101 things to do by yourself while waiting for
a) the removal van
b) your husband
c) your life to start making sense in a brand new place

The answer is D: all of the above.

Well. I won't have internet for a while as the guys I needed to speak with is on holiday. Who knows how when he is back and how long getting me a phone and internet will take?

Hubby will need to blog more instead.
At least until he moves over the pond, too. In August, that is.

Saturday in London: saying goodbyes, feeling home

I guess we're now in "winding down" time. The better half is leaving for sunny Norway in just a few days and I'm not far behind. So I guess it was with a bit of melancholy that we took a Saturday walk around Soho and the tourist spots of Westminster... a bit of a goodbye to the crazy place that has been home for nearly five years.

Yes, it was raining. Not proper rain, but the eternal London drizzle. It didn't deter the millions of tourists blocking the pavements or the Tube escalators. It's OK; it's part of what we want to say goodbye to. London in the summer.

There's the nice pub with the interesting history, cheap beer, and definitely British food. There's the quirky art project that makes everyone a bit bemused (including tourists in the rain). There's the infuriatingly loud Jesus Army event in Trafalgar Square (I'm reading Richard Dawkins' book, so that was interesting).

We walk down towards the Houses of Parliament; Big Ben is 150 years old today, so we thought we'd say hi before we said bye. From Trafalgar Square, down Whitehall, we go past Downing Street and the Cenotaph. As usual, some flower wreaths are laid at its base; it is, after all, the monument to commemorate the dead of the two World Wars. A random man and what I presume is his family walk ahead of us. He suddenly skips across the street, picks a few flowers from the wreaths, and promptly distributes them to his family. The better half and me are speechless. How can you do that?!

I walk over: "you can't do that!". They walk away as if we weren't there, nursing their flowers. I never thought I'd use that incredibly British word, "flabbergasted". But I do. I am.

We walk behind them, but the erratic traffic of tourists brings us alongside again. The man looks over to us. I manage what I think is the most despondent head-shaking in my life. That upsets him: "What do you care?! They are soldiers!"

Well, now, since you ask...

"I care. You can't do that!"

"They are soldiers, they kill! Next time I'll piss on there!"

Do we really need to explain to a grown man -- with a family -- that everyone, regardless of what they did, deserves respect in death? That those are not his flowers? That the families of the dead deserve respect too? That the military, with all its hideous implications, is also a necessary evil at times? That the people who commit their lives to their country do so courageously and believing they are doing the right thing? Do we have to bring up the context of World War II? Words escape me.

"You are disgraceful. How can you? Those flowers are for someone's dead, someone's family."

"I'll piss on them!"

They walk ahead; too many tourists in-between now. In retrospect I guess I was too polite. I just never pictured myself defending something related to the military: several times we stood on this same street or marched through it demanding, loudly and with thousands of others, a stop to military intervention in other countries. How bizarre.

We reach Big Ben. Too many tourists, and no sign of a birthday party. Apparently only when it gets dark will there be some celebration, so we make our way home for now, discussing how idiotic humans can be. And wondering how come we both felt a bit like the whole event was a disrespect to "our country", whatever that means.

7th July thoughts

It's four years since the day that four bombs exploded on three London tubes and a bus today. I have said and written so much about this that I have pretty much ran out of words, and yet I don't want to leave it unmarked and forgotten. I remember it as if it was yesterday (though it is not, London is a lot calmer today than it was four years ago), as I have done every July since.

I remember the old man at the bottom of the escalator as we were evacuated on our way to Kings Cross, confused, waiving with his walking stick, asking someone to tell him what's going on, but nobody can answer, and we stomp like a horde of elephants up those escalators and the burning issue in my head is "Shit! I'm going to be really late for work today!" And of all the days in 2005, this was the one where I left my mobile phone at home.

I should be packing.
I will be living out of a suitcase from tomorrow, but it hasn't quite sinked in that I am actually leaving the country, that my ticket is a one-way ticket, and that there is about a week to go. Instead, I am not packing my suitcase; I am thinking about my nine-years stay in the UK, and the 7th July bombs, and their aftermath has played a considerable part in my "living in Britain"-experience. There is no way around that.

When the rains stops pouring and Hubby gets off work we'll make our way over the memorial at Hyde Park. It's seems I can't just pack up and leave without doing that, at least.

The waiting game

As the plumber agrees to come around to fix one of the three gas leaks, I spend my day off work cancelling any coffees with friends and appointments that I have made before realising I have woken up terribly early for a day off; it has just gone 8.00 am and the plumber could be any time between now and noon.

And you, you probably already know where I am going with this. You are right: noon comes and goes and the plumber is not here. And I am hungry and tired of cereals which is the only edible thing (that don't require cooking on the gas-less cooker) that I can actually eat. Half past 12, hubby calls to say that he is on is way. And by 1 pm, he is in the neighbourhood; he just can find the way.

Annoying.

I was going to do things today, like you always have something to be done, but feel on hold. There are limits for what you can start when the plumber will knock on the door. Any minute, now.

At 1.15 pm I call the plumbers office. A pleasant lady, named Donna, picks up the phone and says that the engineer is lost, that he can't find the way. I reconfirm the address, and the post code, and she says she'll call him up.

At 1.20 she calls back to ask me whether there is a pub with the windows all barred up in the area. I think that there might be, but I have no way of knowing for sure whether it is the same pub or not; there is a pub shut window on every street and I don't want to misguide the chap. In fact I am restless and annoyed. I could have gone for my lunch with friends and back by now, but instead I am simply waiting.

At 1.45 I call Donna again. "Is he not there yet?" she asks, surprised. "No," I confirm. "He is not here. And he is nearly 2 hours late!"
"Right," she says. "I'll call him and call you right back!"

I don't know how long these calls should take, but at 2.10 pm she hasn't phoned back, and so I make the call.
"Oh," she says when she hears it's mean. "I am afraid we can't help you with your gas leak."

Silence.

"Hello?" she asks. "Are you there?"
"I am here," I reply. " I am just in shock! I can't believe what I am hearing."
"Well we can't help you," she says. "You have to find someone else."

I have been up since 8.00 am. I cannot believe this. Do they not realise that this is nearly a full day of work I have spent waiting? What happened to the common courtesy of calling to inform about cancellations?

I am positively fuming. I go to the store, I stock up food and do an hour and a half of yoga and I am still fuming.

It makes me wonder if you have any rights as a consumer. I would like to warn the rest of London against using this company; I would like to claim a day's worth of pay back from them; this is a holiday I am not getting back!

I just can't see it happening somehow...

The Gas Saga continues...

So after the boiler has been switched off by the Gas Man, and the engineer has visited us twice and confirmed we need a brand new boiler, we have made appointments for people to come around and quote us for the work on Thursday. That seems sensible, no?

And in the meantime: no hot water. We think it's ok - there are showers in the gym and thankfully it's summer. Not winter.

Hubby cooks a meal. We try to relax at home, on a Monday evening, dreaming of a day when there were no gas leaks and the world was bright and cheerful. I am tired. But just as I have brushed my teeth for the night, I smell something funny in the kitchen. It smells like gas!

We are confused, yes, we really are. Three visits from gas-men, a note on our boiler deeming it be "immediately dangerous" and the boiler thoroughly switched off... you'd think it was all sorted now, that it was just a waiting game with a potentially huge financial sum at risk. But no. I think it's my paranoia, but when I say "I smell gas" Hubby says "you notice it too?"

And suddenly it's half past midnight. And we are waiting for the Gas Man. Again.

He turns up with interesting equipment that makes the world look blue. We hear beeps, but can't tell if they are supposed to be there or not. Then we hear many beeps, and we have to move the washing machine and empty a kitchen cupboard. And guess what! There is another gas leak. From the cooker. Oh and there is a leaky pipe that's not in use too. We love British Plumbing... it seems so... well, it makes the world a more confusing place. Let's leave at that.

On the bright side, says the Gas Man, you probably would have to replace this pipe anyway when you get a new boiler.

So.
No heating.
No hot water
No cooking.

How long will this take?
Who knows.
How much will it cost?
We are too afraid to ask.

Someone buy me wine. Lots of it.
Now!

Sometimes it's good to be paranoid

It's true.
Like when you wake up on a Friday morning and the kitchen smells of gas. And you think "naaah, it's probably nothing" but that niggling feeling continues and you call hubby to say "I smell gas in the kitchen" thinking why am I calling him? He's at work, he can't really do anything...

He says switch the gas off. Yeah! That's easy to say if you know what you're talking about. You know the box under the sink? No? Well apparently there's a box under the sink. And it's got a lever. Yes. Lever found. He says pull it 90 degrees, and I say "which way" thinking it better be down or there's shelving unit in the way...

thankfully it's down. I turn the cooker on and watch the gas die out. Ok.

Next step?
Call someone.

Someone turns up after two hours. My "Yay-Friday-day-off-meet-folks-in-town-for-liquid-lunches-and-teary-goodbyes" turn into "Stay at home. Wait for the Gasman."
You'd know, I'd nearly rather be at work.

But the Gasman turns up. Gasman turns up and says "that's dangerous, that!" about my boiler. He says "I'm swithing your gas off!". (And it dawns on me that this is more complicated than pulling a lever 90 degrees the right way).
"It's ok," he says. "You're safe!"
He makes it sounds like someone really dangerous is in the flat.
"You're safe now," he repeats. "Come here!"

He takes me into my own sitting room. He opens a door and chucks out a plastic bag with junk and points at an immersion heater.
"There," the man says soothingly. "You've got hot water in there."
(I wasn't asking, and no I don't: it broke in october).

So the Gasman shuts my gas off, he gives me a lecture about gas-safety and I want to object saying "Hey, I called! Surely that's a step in the gas-safe direction?", and then he says "You're safe now" (again) and leaves me with a range of numbers for engineers that can now come and fix the darn thing.

Engineer turns up in the afternoon.
He says we've got a carbon monoxide gas leak. Please open windows. Oh. And a broken boiler.
And no, he can't fix either. Not now, really.

As you can imagine, we have a real fun weekend.
And if I wasn't paranoid, the gas would still be leaking, the CO would still go wherever it is that it goes, and we'd cook and have hot water and live happily ever after. Just maybe not for very long.

Google maps for dummies. Or Dummies that need google maps.

So we have realised that we can't possibly shift all our things over to Norway by ourselves - at least not without a van and a boat, and we don't have a boat. Or a van.

I call a removal company to find out exactly how much blood, sweat and tears they are going to cost us.
"Where are you moving to?" they ask. And this is a sensible question.
"Norway," I say.
"Oh, right!" The woman at the other end sounds cheerful "It's not going to be that bad, it's not like it's international!"

Pardon? What did she say? I rewind.
"It's not like it's international!"
"Erhm.... it is," I say. "It's out of the UK and into Norway."
"Yes, but it's not like it's outside of the EU," explains the woman.
"Erhm... but is," I say. "Norway is not part of the EU."

It's reassuring to know that the people responsible for moving your possessions safely from A to B has no clue where in the world B is. Even worse that they don't look it up on google maps before they open their mouths about it.

What can I say?
We chose someone else. They may not know that Norway is outside the UK, or outside the EU, but at least they haven't admitted to it!