It is very hard to type one-handed with an overly-affectionate cat draped over your shoulder (the three of them have decided to shadow my every move in case I decide to leave them again). It's 4am and the Jet-lag has poked me awake. I need to do something quiet so that I don't waken the rest of the household.

It is a wierd feeling being back here. I'm not exactly over-joyed to be 'home' but the animals are here and the other 4 members of the 'Not' family seem very much at home here. I have never felt homesick per se but the void that my separation from Hingerland has left in my life is tangible and I never wake up as relaxed and happy here as I do when I am back in the Mother Country.

Imagine my surprise when trawling through my quick fix of The Guardian and Independent one Sunday during our visit home to find that someone had written a book actually saying something negative about Kiwiland Hadn't he heard of Kiri Te Kanawa, the All Blacks and those lovely big flat-footed kiwi? Hadn't he seen all those handsome young men with the polished faces in Earls Court? Well undoubtedly this author HAD seen the polished-faces, and some other bits as well as, although predatory may be a slightly harsh word for him, he certainly appears to enjoy his Gaydom

Anyway. I quickly tore out the review of the book and made a note to keep an eye out at Heathrow, where of course I couldn't find the review, forgot the author's name and generally failed at my task!

Imagine my surprise when I got into our local supermarket to re-stock on bread, milk etc in my groggy jet-lagged state to find his notoriety had reached these shores. Usually negativity about Kiwiland is shrouded in denial with a quick sweeping under the carpet but this time it was in magazines and had been covered by National Radio. What had he said? I bought the magazine and then ... my own step to far ... I tried to buy his book.

Not in the first shop, nor the second so I resorted to the best bookshop in the area. Couldn't see it there either and when I asked at the till they glowered at me and eventually swiped a copy from a tiny, cleverly obscured shelf behind the counter "a charming man" spat the assistant. ".. determined to say negative things before he even came here".
"Aww yis" I replied trying to disguise my vaguely Estuary accent
(I am getting quite good at hiding my birthright in situations where being a pom wouldnt be a good thing.)

So here I am with my little time bomb in my hand "Going as Far as I Can" by Duncan Fallowell. So far (with the possible exceptions of the expressions of gay lust) it could be me writing it. Where is the architecture? Why did they flatten it and build mini-US cities? Why does a yearly screening of Dancing With the Stars serve as "Culcha" for the masses?

This could go one of two ways for Mr Fallowell. It could make him shed-loads of filthy lucre, or he could sell not a jot here due to their fierce National Pride. Let's hope it is the former as I rather like his writing. .... Come on guys at least he liked Christchurch

Blimey what a roller coaster the past 10 days have been. The mixed emotions. The excitement going 'home' and of seeing mates and remaining family for the first time in nearly 3 years, together with the heartbreak of Grandma Not's death and the obvious strains that this puts upon a family of 4 siblings who have lost both parents to lung cancer in 11 months.

The first thing I did was to zoom up to see 'my lot' in Leyland for the weekend with the children. We did all the things I used to do as a child when with my cousins. We walked, ate, climbed a climbing wall, walked some more and then toddled back down South for the beginning of the sad part of the trip.

Not being a Catholic the Vigil when Grandma Not comes to stay at the church overnight was quite a nice personal bit of the funeral process. My sister in laws were both very upset which worried my kids who have never seen a sobbing adult before. The priest was fantastic. Young(ish) and totally human which for me was a first. He had made friends with Grandma Not since her husband's death last year and really knew how she ticked and what made her laugh. As a result the service was great. He even read a Joyce Grenfell passage at the beginning which would have pleased even my Mum!

The wake was just great. A proper party in a 16th Century hotel with loads of booze and grub, all the cousins, etc and everyone having a lovely time. She (who loved a good party) would have really enjoyed herself.

Then the trouble started. The sisters couldn't understand that Mr Not wasn't throwing himself on the grave weeping. The boys had done the sadness behind closed doors with their respective wives and as a result when 'older brother Not' told Mr Not to take the Grandfather clock or it would be given away to a scrap merchant he ordered a crate to take all the bookshelves and a few personal items to NZ.

Mr Not and I have seen what a House Clearance man can do to one's parents 'stuff'. I stood in a High Wycombe street 5 years' ago watching someone smash up my mothers' life with a sledge hammer outside a storage unit. I paid £350 for this honour and it broke my heart.

Mrs Not is a whole different ball game. She was a hoarder with a love of books and sewing material which she continued to buy right until the end As a result the job in hand is immense. So when Mr Not with 5 days to go before we caught a plane home, got down to moving all the books out of the house into the garage for a dealer and discussed putting unwanted things aside for shipping to NZ, he was labelled heartless with obvious consequences. It all culminated with a massive screaming match between Big Sister and Mr Not in front of all our children and with me telling Big Sister Not a few home truths (she's a bit of a tyrant)

We were glad to be out of it but I wasn't glad to come home.
I had forgotton how much I love my real home and spent many a tearful moment outside Terminal 3 of Heathrow on Monday morning just people watching. People from every walk of life march past on their travels to work or on their holidays. London in the frost has a very distinctive smell. Viva cosmolitanism.

Well it's back to reality now. Uniform to name and sandwiches to make. 2 months of having the children around me is at an end. I always find this time of year very sad, wherever I reside. Giving my children away to teachers for 8 months or so of the year is not good.

Well I'm back ... and thank you England and Grandma Not for a great trip. I will miss them. Until the next time. I've already started saving

Today I found three books belonging to Grandma Not (only 3 I hear you splutter) and introduced the next generation to ‘Romany’. ‘Out With Romany’, ‘Out with Romany Again’ and ‘Out with Romany by Moor and Dale’, were part of Grandma Not’s branch arm of the British Library!

It all came flooding back to me. I remember my Mum used to read to me from ‘Romany and Raq’ when I was little.

Romany’s real name was The Rev George Bramwell Evens. He was the son of a true Romany mother and he became Children’s Hour sort of wildlife correspondent in the 30s and 40s. My Mum had loved listening to him and probably gleaned a smattering of her endless knowledge of wildlife and the hedgerows from sitting listening to him on their crackly old radio in Hinksay Road.

When I was a little girl on trips to visit my family in Cheshire, Mum and my Auntie used to take me to see his Vado (a lovely old green gypsy caravan parked in the middle of Wilmslow). I can vividly recall peering through the window imagining all the adventures I could have, if only it was mine. Secretly all I really wanted was his spaniel Raq, who by then must have been long gone!

Apparently you don’t have to peer through the window any more as the Vado is open every now and then for viewing. That probably takes away some of the mystique!

A little bit of ingenuity - those Kiwis are not the only ones with ingenuity you know - and I found a way of creating another password!
You don't get rid that easily you know

Arrived in lovely old, smelly old, dirty old Heathrow on Friday morning and within two hours were passing the junction for our old home. The kids all wanted to drive past our house to check out any alterations/demolition that may have occurred since. Oh and then there was the obligitory visit to the pub for a warm flat ale Well it was lunchtime!

I popped up to see all 'my lot' (not that there are many of us any more) for the weekend with the children and we climbed and walked to our hearts content. Edmund Hilary's family need worry no more. New Zealand now has another avid climber. Our JT has discovered he's a monkey and has spent the remainder of our trip searching for climbing shooes
... and for the record dearest Cuz, fused vertebrae and climbing 'the purple ones' on a climbing wall DO NOT mix!

The funeral was on Tuesday and I hope Grandma Not would have been proud. It was a lovely do and the first funeral I have ever been to when the faith seemed to make sense. Grandma Not was a staunch Catholic and not just someone who donned a hat weekly and notched up loyalty points with the great Service Provider in the Sky. She really did believe that whatever happened 'He' was keeping an eye on her. Do you know what, I really think he did too.

Now the long haul has started. Anyone want a book or six thousand

I like a good book in fact I tend to adopt books just so that I am sure that they will go to a loving home but I do try to exercise discretion! Grandma Not, however, owns every diet book (and ironically cookery book!), gardening book, sewing book, travel guide (etc, etc!) ever written. Yesterday we formed a human chain of all the children and started the migration of the books from the attic room down to the garage. Ok, so a few found themselves into a little pink plastic box for me but not very many. Honest

Off to see 'Nana and Ditz Herneschase' today. They probably won't know a thing about it as they (my parents) have been pushing up daisies for many a moon now. The children are going armed with pot plants and trowels, intent on giving them a Spring-clean. Our now rare visits to my parents' grave usually ends up as a bit of a 'jolly' as they have a wonderful view of the Buckinghamshire countryside and the kids love it there.

Home on Monday morning and LC and I will be big and brave about it. When asked by one of my rellies this week where home was for her, LC said this and I think it just about sums up the situation.
"This is home but New Zealand is where I live"

I may not blog again until I reach Kiwiland but thank you for being lovely and making my trip home so painless, all you inhabitants of the Motherland