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Shit we’re actually emigrating? Why did no one tell me?

SarahAlderson

October 6, 2010

I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared. And that’s nothing to do with reading the Air Asia inflight magazine in which they discuss what happens when planes crash into the sea and try to comfort you with all the rescue paraphanelia that would ditch into the watery abyss with you. It’s ok, you’ll plummet 37,000 feet but you’ll have a whistle.

And seasickness tablets.

So what’s the big fuss?

I’m sacred because I think we are mad. And it’s only suddenly occurred to me, 37,000 feet in the air and over water, that we’re emigrating. I swallow hard. And then clutch John and demand to know what we were thinking.

(I’m also unnaturally afraid because, even though I’m not trafficking drugs of any description, entering Indonesia freaks me out every time. Just the sign declaring death to anyone with so much as a pipe on their person makes me nervous.)

Our previous wanderings seem suddenly like a 2 week Thompson holiday in Spain compared to this. This is monumental. And a part of me longs for the crazy, lazy days of mooching around the planet with just a 60ltr rucksack, a bank account aslosh with money for the ahum bathroom and a round the world ticket in my hand. I miss the lightness of that, the vagueness, the freedom, the possibilities.

Now I will be a stayer putter. I will be chair of the parent board at Alula’s school – volunteered in my absence and crap if that’s not a slap around my vague face and a reminder of responsibilities rather than possibilities. Am I ready to have a home again? A routine? Won’t that feel like prison?

For the whole 14 hour Air Asia flight to KL, when not trying to stave off hypothermia by clutching Alula in the throes of sleep (Air Asia that’ll be 50 quid for a comfort blanket please) I kept thinking ‘what have we done? what have we done?’ There were no films to choose from either to distract me (normally I’ll take a three hour shot of Jakey boy running around in a skirt to distract me from the 37,000 feet and the whistle) but no on Air Asia you have to pay Odeon west end prices for a movie. And though I like Jake, particularly his chest, I have to say I don’t like him enough to fork out 8 quid. For that I’d expect something a lot more personal than can be achieved through a plasma screen.

And then something weird happens, we arrive home. Our gorgeous house in Penestanan. And within seconds it is home (especially once I’ve stashed the Absolut in the freezer). Our pembantu Kadek arrives all smiles and with sweets for Alula. The car gets dropped. Tea gets made (albeit Bali style – black lipton with 8 tablespoons of sugar), the restaurant next door russles up a pancake for Alula. I do a supermarket sweep and bump into 3 people I know.

Oooh I think, I can do this. This is actually rather wonderful. All we need is a dog.

And then I unpack the mugs, the magnets and the marmite. Oh, and the PG tips and the percy pigs. I sit back on the balcony admiring the view. And then, then I really do feel at home.

Punctuality and I part ways

SarahAlderson

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October 4, 2010

Before – once upon a time – when I used to be a professional – I knew what punctuality was. It seems that in the last nine months punctuality and I have become estranged. Possibly permanently.

It’s quite amazing how quickly it happened. John and I have never worn watches and for a time whilst travelling I didn’t have a phone either. And as a result we lost all sense of timekeeping. And really – what did we ever have to be on time for? Ok, there were flights and the occasional train but usually we had a taxi booked which meant we had an alarm call so to speak.

John was always challenged in the time department. I used to get annoyed by it. Now I just sit or lie and read a book until he says ‘right are you ready?’

And then I still don’t move. I now don’t move now until John is out the house, in the car, engine running and has done his two return trips to the house for forgotten items. I have learnt the hard way. We’ve almost divorced at every airport because John will amble, and then decide to go to the toilet whilst they are screaming ‘Final call’ over the tannoy and are pulling the tape across the gate.

In our first week back we had to get to a wedding. We were already running late (we thought – we didn’t really know because we don’t wear watches and the clock in the car was saying something like 43.18) and when we turned into the multi story carpark John decided now would be a good time and place to get into his suit, change his belt and his shoes and his shirt. Choose a tie – I don’t know probably shave too.

I got back in the car. Read five more chapters of my book.

When we finally made it to the church the bride was just about to enter to the wedding march. John tried to get around her and the bridesmaids – would have given the groom a shock – if I hadn’t grabbed his sleeve and held him back.

Anyway all this to illustrate that we rarely make anything on time these days.

Same goes for our flight back to Bali. We made it to check in with an hour to go until our flight. In what was possibly the most stressful car journey of my life – missed the junction and had to head back on the southbound motorway which was jammed. On arrival at the check in desk with mere minutes until the gate closed, the man stared at our two trolleys and raised a plucked eyebrow.

‘We have paid for excess,’ I panted (we’d run).

Our three check-in bags weighed in at over 96kg. 6kg over the excess.

So there we were on the concourse unpacking the beasts and scattering items all around trying to work out what to purge. – it was like some sick task from the crystal maze – the clock ticking and some pen tapping, disapproving camp air steward tut tutting all the while whilst we stacked things onto the scales to make up 6kg. Needless to say I lost all my books (one of which was a recipe book so no loss there) whilst John purged what exactly? Still not sure – some laptop screen cleaner I believe.

We boarded with about 45kg of hand baggage, claiming ‘laptop bag, laptop bag’ at whoever questioned our three bags a piece. We ran through security and then guess what?

Final Call.

John goes to the loo.

We were the last to board.

Ironically, I now recall, the one item John did empty out of his bag and purge was the alarm clock.

London just exhausts me

SarahAlderson

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October 1, 2010

London. It just exhausts me. Last night I found myself drenched, numb, bone tired and hating on the whole transport system.

And all I could think about – to the point that I almost burst into tears as I stood at south ken tube staring at macaroons in the window of Paul that cost £3.30 each – was the golden Californian sunshine, sitting on a beach with warm sand trailing through my fingers, ordering an entire succulent spicy pig for less money than a sugary French treat and the fact I never ever ever feel an ounce of cold in Bali unless I’m standing underneath an air conditioning unit naked having just showered in cold water. The exhaustion I was feeling, the kind that makes you pass out whilst standing upright holding onto a rail on a tube train, is not something I am able to cope with anymore. My friend found me drizzled upon and unhappy, wrapped me in her scarf and stuffed a barocca in my mouth immediately. It wasn’t a macaroon but hey. Probably better at halting death.

I think if you live in London for a time you adapt, because I used to do it daily and yeah, I was tired, but now I can’t even manage to hop about London for half a day without feeling like I need to put myself into a coma for a month on an IV drip of two parts valium one part vodka to recover.

The only way I shall ever be able to live in London again is if I rent a flat in W1, have my own driver, and drawers full of cashmere lined underwear.

Which leads me to equate London with a disease to which you build up immunity. And if you’re away from it for too long your immunity decreases and you come back and you’re decimated in seconds. Unless you have a driver and cashmere lined underwear which act like barriers through which the virus can’t penetrate.

There, that’s my thoughts on London.

Jamie Oliver can’t teach me anything.

SarahAlderson

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September 29, 2010

I decided to cook a lamb. Jamie Oliver convinced me. All those books with the pretty succulent meat pictures. All that geezer, easy peasy, in a jiffy, Jool’s favourite got me fired up and I forgot for a second who I was.

Instead I thought, hell yeah, I’m going to roast me some lamb.

I bashed up some herbs, well truth be told I got Lula to bash the herbs, I had this vision of her and I in some sort of Nigella Lawson frosted mother/child fantasy. Anyway I slapped some kind of half-arsed marinade on the lamb’s arse and then left it out whilst the oven warmed up. Forgot about it. Remembered it about half an hour before dinner time. Went to put it in oven for its allotted precooking time. Forgot about it. Went back – found it smoldering. Turned the heat down. Put it back for an hour. Forgot about it. Called John to sort out the potatoes because by then I was starting to realize co-ordinating the cooking of meat and vegetables was far, far, far beyond my abilities. Was beyond anything Jamie Oliver has ever had to confront in truculent school dinner ladies or e-number guzzling children and their mars bar feeding mothers.

Forgot about it again. Came back to find John and various family members trying to rescue meat and vegetables, thetable laid, plates warming. Thing is no one had thought to come and get me to remind me that the dinner I’d said I would cook was nearly done. They’d just decided en masse and without a word to get on without me or I guess they figured they’d be going to bed hungry.

So yeah, that’s it I suppose. That’s my last ever effort at cooking. The recipe books I pulled down from the loft and put in my 500litre suitcase are back in the loft.

Work wardrobes

SarahAlderson

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September 24, 2010

‘Daaaarling,’ I say, ‘Do you like my new bikini?’

John pauses to look up from his computer which oftentimes I think he should have married instead of me. It certainly gets more attention and is probably worth more than I am. Not that that would be hard. Anything worth more than approximately £10.34 would be worth more than me.

‘Where’s that from?’ he asks.

‘The shop of top,’ I say. (ok, ok I know I said I’m too old but but but in my head I’m still 17 and that counts for something doesn’t it?)

‘How much did that cost?’ he asks.

I’m indignant. Where was he expecting me to buy a bikini from? Lidl? Was he expecting me to craft one out of three polythene triangles and a bit of string?

‘How dare you?’ I say, ‘You just spent £55 on clothes in H&M.’

John thinks he can shop without me knowing.

John thinks he can use the house account card to buy clothes.

Oh newsflash.

‘Well I needed those clothes for work in Singapore,’ he says.

‘Well,’ I answer, ‘I needed this bikini for work. This bikini is my work clothes.’

He stares at me in disbelief.

‘What?’ I say, ‘I shall be wearing this bikini by the pool whilst I write my next book.’

And he actually can’t argue with that. And neither can the tax man when I put the receipt through expenses.

Vampires, shapeshifters, threesomes, snogging…

SarahAlderson

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September 22, 2010

I am standing in the middle of a traffic island in rush hour traffic at the junction of St Martin’s lane and Long Acre. And I’m having an in depth quite serious conversation whilst people in suits rush past as though the end of the world is nigh. The conversation goes something like this:

But do you think teenage love triangles are a bit you know clichéd nowadays? You know – Edward Bella Jacob – Katniss Gale Peeta – Damon and those other two other annoying ones (admittedly here I’m thinking of the tv show and not the books)?

And so what if the shapeshifter is actually… and the girl ends up having to kill him? And yes of course he’s hot. He’s like Edward Cullen crossed with Damon crossed with Eric Northman then timesed by a billion.

And I was thinking when the Hunters come after them… and the one with the tail goes all nutso and he has to choose who to save…(it’s so like Sophie’s choice it’s not true) and I have the most awesome first kiss scene written. It’s very, very hot. Well at least as hot as is allowed for young adult fiction (and here I wonder whether erotic fiction might actually be my talent).

And then we start debating the merits of first person narrative over third person. And at that point I look around me at the swamping crowds and realize that I do in fact have the most ridiculously amazing job in the world. (Actually can I really call it a job when all I do is actually make crazy stuff up and write it down?)

And on the tube on the way home with all these suited city types (and if you’ve followed me for a while you’ll remember my hooker-esque feelings upon leaving London regarding men in suits) I find myself delighting in the fact I have a way of making money (cos really I feel uncomfortable calling it a job) that allows me to frequent Gay bars and read trashy fiction for ahum research purposes and look up male models for ahum research purposes and then stand on street corners discussing the merits of vampires over demon slayers in a completely non-ironic way with someone who actually makes very lucrative deals with big publishing houses on just this very thing.

Life has taken a very surreal turn. And I must say I’m liking it exceedingly much.

Very important update

SarahAlderson

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September 22, 2010

I thought it about time I updated you on several important situations.

Namely my hair and my sunglasses.

Short long short long. I grew my hair whilst travelling because I only trust one person in the world to cut it and unfortunately I’m not yet rich enough to fly her out to wherever I am in the world. I went for a cunning combination without doing anything too punk. Short short fringe. The rest long. I like. And John can snip my fringe when it starts hitting my eyelashes.

On the subject of the fringe, Alula is delighted as now we have snap fringes. Except, I tell her, mine is the A/W rounded edge collection. So ahead of the times baby. (Hers is only the Spring 2010 Supercuts special).

On the subject of sunglasses, you might remember these babies. And oh how everyone joked. The funny thing is if I’d shown you the picture of the Mexican pool boy hat that I bought to go with them then you really would have had something to laugh about. When I get back to Bali I shall post that one for your amusement. But until then, see how well they go with my chloe dress. Similar beige stripes. How’s that for fashion?

And the piece de resistance, my new sunglasses, bought for $3.49 in the Goodwill in downtown SF. Dierdre Barlow eat your heart out.

the last ten days

SarahAlderson

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September 20, 2010

I figured out that in the last two weeks we’ve travelled far more than we ever did in 6 months travelling. I’m not sure how that is possible.

What I do know is that 4000 miles of California’s highways and country lanes are infinitely more alluring than the M1, that the only thing left in my cooking repertoire is shepherd’s pie and even that I can now only be bothered to make with a packet of Coleman’s shepherd’s pie seasoning and that it was easier with one bag of clothes for 6 months than a carload of clothes for 1 week in the north of England because whilst travelling I only needed a vest and a pair of shorts and here I need about ten layers to feel even remotely lukewarm.

It went like this – Buckinghamshire, South East London, London, Croydon, Chester, Manchester, Cumbria, Buckinghamshire (for an hour’s pit stop so John could pick up his running shoes which do you think he’s used? What do you reckon people?) then Sussex. In the space of 10 days. I feel like I need to take to my bed with a lavender heated pillow, some wool slippers and a mountain of books to recover. Oh, actually that’s what I have just done (I read the final two books in the Hunger Games series in little over 48 hours and am now fully emotionally spent).

Have there been highlights (other than the lazing in a bed with slippers, hot water bottles and books)? Well let’s see. I’ve drunk a lot of wine. In fact I’ve drunk wine like a camel hoping it will swell my cells and tide me over the dry wine months ahead in Indonesia. I’ve eaten a fair few fizzy pig tails and a really good roast chicken. I’ve walked along a sunny canal path in Chester with my brother and our families and sat in a pub garden drinking a pint. I’ve hugged a lot of friends and danced at the loft. I’ve taken the tube and remembered how much I loathe tourists who stand on the left on escalators. I’ve realized yet again that no matter how good it looks on the hanger I really am too old for Topshop and I’ve found a really good shade of lipstick that really helps grab the attention of barmen in crowded bars. I’ve been to a wedding and actually danced to Justin Timberlake. I’ve bought a can opener (though why I don’t know, it’s not like I actually plan on cooking ever again, but maybe John will find a use for it). And tonight – tonight I get to watch spooks. Though I expect to be fully disappointed yet again when they fail to bring Adam back from the dead.

Ancestors and Roots

SarahAlderson

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September 14, 2010

It’s not so easy to get nostalgic when your grandfather grew up on the Old Kent Road. And generally speaking I don’t hold with anywhere north (of the equator that is). Certainly I only like the M6 tollroad because it circumvents Birmingham. But visiting Cumbria with John, land of his forbears, I find myself getting all family minded and feeling all misty eyed about the UK.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not about to ditch Bali for Cumbria. The rain is giving the windows a good whipping, the stonework is about six foot deep and even that’s not enough to stop me from sitting on top of the rayburn drinking in the heat, and once more I find my driving skills unsuited to one lane winding country roads (maybe slow down a bit John says, with one hand wavering over the handbrake) but there’s something rather lovely about a churchyard full of Aldersons.

There’s even a John and Sarah Alderson, our ancestors (well John’s – there I am again claiming them as my own, but Sarah Alderson from 1732 wasn’t born one either and there she is in the graveyard laying claim to six feet of Cumbrian soil).

And the old Alderson farmhouse, standing bluntly over the stunning Eden Valley, is now no longer a rambling stone shell but the place of the world’s most incredible shower (a shower so good I contemplated actually sleeping in it rather than in my bed).

It feels good to connect Alula with her roots, she’s been so rootless for so long. And even though she’s oblivious to the sense of history (she still thinks she’s going to live to be a billion and a hundred) I’d like to think it will give her some grounding in the future. Then I’ll take her to the Old Kent Road and let my dad take her to Millwall football ground so she can connect with her other roots and learn some proper hooligan behaviour. She is after all half south londoner.

But there I am happy to vagabond my whole life, with no desire for one home and no calling to set down roots in one particular place and here I am confronted with centuries of one family living in one place. It’s kind of mind-blowing. And I think I need to think about it for a few days before I figure out what family and place means to the sense we create of self. Is there more to it than just being sagittarius?

And, you know, I think I might spend that time thinking in the shower.

I am a writer. It’s official. And that’s way more fun than working in the voluntary sector.

SarahAlderson

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September 11, 2010

I caught a taxi over London Bridge on Thursday and went right past my old office. It was like a regression – like remembering a past life (in this case not the kind where you discover you were Cleopatra with grape-feeding slaves but the kind where you find out you were the grape-feeding slave). And the grin almost tore my cheeks in two.

I still pinch myself regularly trying to believe that this is my life now. No more 9-5, no more commute, no more tube. No more going to meetings in heels to make myself look grown up and pretending like I knew what I was talking about and going cross eyed as civil servants pronounced on riveting stuff like digital inclusion. No more having to performance review people or fire them (though I have to say I do miss that last one). I recently re-read a post I did four days before resigning and it made me cringe at all the lost hours I’d spent at tossery events called unconferences. But it also made me proud of the old me for having the guts to leave (both the unconferences and head to the pub and to actually leave my job and the UK). I’m the poorest I’ve ever been but also the happiest.

Earlier in the day I had been to Simon & Schuster with my agent to meet my publisher. I hadn’t given it much thought other than slapping on a pair of heels and some lipstick in an effort to look professional (it’s been a while and even back in the day it was quite a task – my feet are still in shock). So when I walked into the room and saw the champagne on the table and the eight glasses I wondered if I was interrupting something – some important meeting. I even thought to myself ‘oooh what a fabulous job publishing must be – you can sit and read books all day whilst drinking pink champagne, maybe I shouldn’t be so hasty about moving to Bali, there is no champagne there afterall and books are squeamishly expensive’ until I realized the champagne was for me. And a whole lovely roomful of people appeared to say hello (and did I mention they were all extremely LOVELY and also extremely stylish, witty, fun and brilliantly intelligent along with that?). Then they gave me a pile of books and my happiness was all complete. It was like supermarket sweep, only with bookshelves and no Dale Winton. It was about as exciting as getting a book deal in itself. Free books! And champagne!

Before that I’d been to my agent’s office and seen the towering pile of submission manuscripts on the desk and it made me realize how big the odds are to make it to a room with pink champagne.

And somehow, with the help of Alex Skarsgard and an overactive imagination I made it. For that I am grateful.

Ps. My husband helped too. For that I am grateful!

pps. I suppose what I mean to say in this post is something that I saw written on a park bench yesterday and which I saw as a sign (I’m seeing signs everywhere – I’m like M. Night Shyamalan). It said:

He who seeks dreams will dance into tomorrow, igniting passions and capturing hearts.

Seek dreams people.