It suddenly struck me this week that, despite all my protestations to the contrary, I am rapidly becoming used to my life in this country. I am growing accustomed to the seasonal routine to the terminology and to some of the National quirks. I am even resigned to being considered lower than the low by some of my fellow men. I no longer care too much if I am ridiculed for being, as one man put it, ‘disabled’ (ie, a Pom and a female one at that). I love my little farm and my moos and my solitude. I do, however, sometimes wonder if we did the right thing bringing the children here and away from a decent education system (yes, really it isn’t all that bad after all!). They do, however, have so much freedom and space and a lovely group of mates here and we seem to laugh a lot more than we ever did before.
I still fret about the loss of my friends. My commitments to the animals have meant that making new ones here has been tough. (present company excepted of course 
)
I miss quality journalism, (no, not you Mr Murdoch!) and decent TV and radio and my own brand of (ever so dramatically left-wing) politics I miss visits to London for museums, theatre, gigs, parties etc. Even our little suburban Rep’ theatre was an oasis and we now realise how spoiled we were. You really don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.
The biggest hole in my life 
is the loss of our regular trips to Cornwall to top up the spiritual me and drink decent Cornish ale! Even JT asked yesterday when he could go back to Boscastle to the Witchcraft Museum – we used to try and visit at least twice a year, even after the flood.
Today, whilst poking at the remains of our fire I was reminded of the massive bonfire that my Dad lit on the top of the highest hill in our village back in 1977. Whilst The Sex Pistols were trolling down The Thames on their barge, my mates and I were listening to an old intercom system blasting Top of the Pops albums around Church Hill! A disco I think we called it 
This got me thinking how our personal history plays an important role in shaping our lives. We had a tiny school of 36 children back in the day and our main subjects were English, Maths and History – all taught through the medium of religion by an ex-missionary! Ofsted would have had a field day!
As kids, we learned about World history by talking about all the village landmarks - the obligatory Oak tree in which King Charles had hidden (yeah right 
) and the forest where Henry the Eighth had hunted (he must have spent all his waking hours hunting 
) There had been a POW camp on the very same ‘Jubilee bonfire hill’ and some of the Polish inmates were my friends’ Dads. The local ‘Manor’ had also been an Intelligence Headquarters during WW2. I remember, even at the tender age of 10 or 11, being so impressed by William the Conquerer’s chair in a nearby pub – it probably shaped my politics for ever more!
It makes me smile that my Dad and Mum are now part of the village folk-lore. The things my Dad made and repaired for other villagers are scattered amongst people’s possessions and on display in the pub and the church (both his places of worship) as reminders of their part in our village. Of course, they now lie with most of their mates, overlooking, yes you've guessed it, the Jubilee bonfire hill" 
So, today, I took another brave step into the abyss of Kiwidome 
I sold my first item on Trademe - the NZ version of EBay. Trademe is a National obsession – like muffins, coffee, Milo and Vogels bread. It is really worth a look.
So I am trying (some say very 
) but no matter how much I make an effort to make my home here, there is still a great big unbreakable chain pulling me back to all that stuff that makes me, me.
Maybe, one day, in many moons to come, I'll come home to grow old where I belong
Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaat
