Packing Up

With Christmas around the corner and the weather nothing to write home about, we've started arranging our affairs and thinking about the practicalities of returning home. To be fair, the return leg is a whole lot easier than the outward one; especially as we have somewhere permanent to live, two cars with working ignition and a dishwasher that doesn't have a family of cockroaches squatting inside.

Speaking of cockroaches, the man from Fisher and Paykel came out to look at the dishwasher this morning, or rather, some technician sent by the estate agent did. Fisher and Paykel make all sorts of kitchen appliances and apparently none of them are any good, especially not these two drawer dishwashers. The thing's been playing up as long as we can remember and they've already sent one guy out to shake his head at it but the complaint never went any further than the head shaking and tutting and some vague explanation about cockroaches short circuiting dishwashers all over Sydney, especially in the eastern suburbs.

The problem is, I don't want to use this bloody dishwasher even if they can fix it, especially since the repair man removed the front panel and dusted off all the cockroach eggs with a blue cloth, simultaneously pointing out the subtle difference between roach eggs and roach shit.

"We could bleach it if he can fix it" suggested Darren, but still I'd rather soldier on with the heap of crockery piled on the draining board than eat my Allbran from a bowl that's been in that machine. Anyway, the outcome was exactly the same as last time; the technician couldn't work out the problem and even if he could, he'd need a serial number for the machine, which we don't have. Whatever happens, it's not going to be sorted out before we leave, so I'm not wasting any more of my own time waiting in for technicians on standing around while they scratch their heads at it. Yes, I'm a crabby old bitch, but time's precious and this dishwasher's not my problem.

Aside from the dishwasher saga, the preparations for our return are going okay and the process of clearing out cupboards is cathartic to say the least. I can think of a million reasons to stay and a million reasons to go but still the reality of hitting the home straight is difficult and I'm not sure how well we'll handle having to leave or having to settle back into living in Britain, especially Ella, who spends lots of time outdoors.

Yesterday I went out for a farewell lunch with my colleagues from the univeristy, who took me to a lovely little restaurant and said all sorts of nice things about my work and my buoyant personality (which I think they might be confusing with my buoyant thighs, but I digress). And then they gave me a book of photographs of the Australian landscape, all wrapped up in paper with pictures of cold beer and thongs, as though I need any reminding of the climate back home.

"I hope we'll see you back" said Kath, our receptionist. "You're an Aussie and you know it" she continued, "I don't think you'll be able to help yourself".

Jackie eyed me across the table. "Oh I don't know Kath, she's an Aussie when the sun's shining but the rest of the time she wants to go home".

"I miss my home" I explained. "And my friends and the cosy pubs. I miss the radio and the telly and the shopping. I miss feeling settled, you know, the familiarity of your own home, your own culture. I was bored with it, I needed a change, and now I'm ready to move on".

"Move on where?" asked Julia.

"The north shore would be better" I said. "Or Watson's Bay".

I'm in denial, I think.