At the beginning of the year, I set myself the target of writing two blogposts a month, and looking back at the archive on this little corner of the internet, there is a clear correlation between starting work and stopping writing.
One of my pitfalls when it comes to writing anything - whether my diary or here - is feeling like if I fail to document a segment of time (a specific day, or a significant period), I can't write the next thing. Mental drafts pile up and I leave blank pages in my diary, sure that some day I'll go back and create that perfect record.
That of course, doesn't happen. I had a poem in my head in the first week we were here which has slipped away to that anywhere that thoughts go, unbidden. Perhaps when I'm old and have dementia, I'll slip into that place and find some of them again. For now, I must forge ahead and write.
So, August. A month I'd never actually spent in Britain until now. Childhood England consisted of balmy June and July days lolling in the garden, splashing in the water mill pond, and driving to places that confirmed, to my mind, that England was actually Narnia in disguise. University England was also idyllic, or perhaps is because it is now firmly ensconced in that file in my mind labelled 'nostalgia'. If I conjure up a picture of it, what I imagine is crisp air, yellow and orange falling leaves, learning opening up like an endless universe.
I began August in Oxford, this time round, in a painfully similar way to Cambridge: falling head first off my bike, at speed, downhill. We'd walked through a parched-looking Wytham Woods (having come here after perhaps the fifth heat wave the UK experienced this summer) and then on the way back, zoomed down a hill. Towards the base of the hill, an unexpected speed bump sent me into the air and I, foolishly, braked hard and tipped over. It was a bad crash and all I can say now is it was lucky I wasn't more hurt, but I had scars on my arms, legs, chin, and a sprained left forearm. I learnt in subsequent days that I very much dislike pain, and feel unreasonably impatient when I am not capable.
Thankfully, we've landed in Jacob's Dad's home. We have a room of our own; we built the bed a week and a bit in, and have unpacked about 90% of the things we've brought. Mark asks us to treat this place like our own, and I took him at his word (his word is genuine) and invited Ellis over when she turned up in Oxford instead of heading to Italy. Friends came hard and fast after that: Nick was in Oxford, Anais is here, I met Sally and Eden in London, and spent time in Ixworth with Auntie Sarah and Connie, and in Cambridge with Alex.
In September I started working - another museum, but not curating any longer. Now I'm a project manager, which means keeping things on schedule and on budget, and connecting all the dots and people that make an exhibition spring to life. It's complicated, and means learning who's who and what do they do in the museum - fast. I've found myself feeling exhausted and missing the creative and interpretive part of my previous role, but also feeling thankful to be once again part of something bigger. September also saw Naomi moving to Oxford - Naomi from Cambridge, who has been to Singapore, who has been a constant voice message companion through the six years we were away. We've met each week since she's been here for hot chocolate, and it's been so refreshing to just chatter away to a soul friend.
Jacob started his CELTA course in September, and Izzy moved in halfway, and work felt intense but I found myself cooking about 4-5 nights a week (because his course ended late) and felt...kind of grumpy about it? I remember my Mum hating cooking when we were little, and I know why. I love food and flavour but trying to navigate new supermarkets and work and hungry bellies was a lot of pressure and I am glad that Jacob, a far calmer chef than I am, is picking up the cooking in October.
Ah October. The days are already much shorter now than they were. When we arrived in August the light came up outside our window before 6am. Now the sun rises at about 7am, and sets at around 7pm. I'm scouring the internet shops for long sleeves (having poor luck in charity shops because everything is too big for me), and planning my next knitting project.
I came across someone who makes a list of 10 things she wants to do in a month. Sometimes she doesn't accomplish them and that's okay, and so, inspired by this lack of compulsory achievement I've come up with my own list, for the month of October:
1. Visit a cafe in Oxford
2. Do some push ups
3. Read a poetry book
4. Find something with a mouse in it in the Ashmolean Museum
5. Start a knitting project
6. Clap while standing up
7. Read or write in a park
8. Send a letter
9. Stretch more
10. Learn the names of three trees
Let's see how I go.
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