Flip over an hourglass and watch the sand. At first, the decreasing level in the upper chamber is hardly perceptible, but as more and more sand trickles through to the lower chamber, the faster it goes. Once it gets to the final seconds’ worth of sand, it takes…well, seconds to drop through.

 

The last seven months have been like that. P and I were married on 1st September last year in London (www.katherineandpaul.com). As soon as I threw away the completed checklists for that, new ones were drawn up. There’s quite a lot to consider when emigrating; sorting through decades of accumulated junk, selling stuff off, choosing a value-for money removal company, transferring money and pensions, going through the bureaucratic hoops required whenever anyone leaves the UK for good. For good measure we’d chosen to travel for on the way. Six weeks in Japan, four days in Cambodia and three weeks in Vietnam would need a little bit of planning too.

 

For a long time the impending departure didn’t feel real. The sand shifted imperceptibly and our lives in London continued as normal, P working his chef’s insane schedule at The Lanesborough’s Conservatory, me on the hamster wheel of the daily commute to a soulless skyscraper in The City. I squeezed in time with friends and family, a weekly fiction writing class at Birkbeck, and snatched the odd moment with my husband. The sand began to trickle through ever faster. My veil of denial began to lift, rather painfully, with the realisation that each time I met up with a dear friend, there wouldn’t be many more times we could get together before I took off to the opposite side of the planet. Every now and again, at the top of the double-decker bus to work, I’d see the pink sunrise reflected on the dome of St Paul’s as we headed up Ludgate Hill, steam rising from the buildings around it, and I’d be struck by the beauty of London, and how much I was going to miss it and I’d well up a little. Getting back on the Central Line at rush hour was a good cure for the sentimentality. But this was nothing compared to thinking about the family and friends we’d be leaving behind.

 

Alongside this occasional melancholy sat bubbling excitement at the adventure ahead, making for a peculiar emotional rollercoaster ride. The sand trickled faster still and the increasing busy-ness anaesthetised me from the pain of goodbyes that loomed. In the final two weeks, having given up our jobs, we rushed about like recently decapitated chickens, trying to beat the clock. But there we were, swept down into the lower chamber with the last dregs of the sand. Yesterday, our time ran out. Driving away from London, I waved goodbye to the place I’d called home for 18 years.

 

On Friday, P and I gathered with our friends and our family at The Prince of Wales pub in Holland Park, where we’d celebrated our marriage seven months before. It was a great night. I almost wanted to stay, then leave again so that we could have another party just like it. So many people there, wishing us well. It was hard to spend the time I wanted to with everybody; that was when the sand was trickling fastest of all, and I tried to pack in as much time with as many people as possible before the night ended.

 

But end it did, and waking from a surprisingly good night’s sleep on a wooden floor covered with sheets and blankets, we went to Mike’s in Blenheim Crescent for a full English breakfast. I ran off down a market-crowded Portobello Road with a camera to record as many of the memory-ripe places as I could. I’m steeling myself for the pangs of homesickness I’ll feel whenever I think of the neighbourhood I’ve loved and grown up with these last eighteen years.

 

 

The final goodbyes to our neighbours over, my father drove us up and out of London, to Cambridge, to spend our final weekend. And this is where I am now. The sand’s run out, we’re in the quiet eye of the storm, about to take off tomorrow from Terminal Five at Heathrow with – I hope – our luggage (impeccable timing), for a new future and a new life. We’ll have fun on the way. My long gabbed-about foodblog, chewitover.net, has been postponed until we arrive in Australia. Atchi Kotchi, in the meantime, has temporarily taken its place so that all those we know and love, and maybe anyone interested out there besides, can dip into the next two months of what will be a strangely rootless travelling life and see what we’re getting up to.

The clocks have gone forward today – spring is on its way. We won’t be here for it, but to all those we’ve left behind – enjoy the approach of the sun. Thank you for your friendship, for being there or us and for a fantastic leaving party. We’ll be thinking of you, we’ll miss you, but it’s really not ‘goodbye’, it’s see you soon. My next blog posting will probably be from Tokyo. See you then. I hope you enjoy Atchi Kochi.

 

Katherine

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