...who emigrates and longs for home, or their Tesco card, same same.
Day one: Jet lagged, emotional and confused.
I woke up at 6am, not bad considering he now appears to snore (I was not informed of this over the past year of dating), sleeps with the door wide open, has non-black out blinds and a cat which uses the bed as some sort of CrossFit style rig during the hours of darkness. But I am adapting (read: wearing earplugs and an eye mask).
I’ve never lived with a man before.
There you go, I’ve said it.
What happens if it was all a con? Was he only pretending to be tidy? Did he really live like a slob and expect me to be his maid? Was he gonna wake me at 4am every day to lovingly cook him a full English before work? Oh god what happens if he didn’t put things back in the right place?
I drink my peppermint tea calm down whilst mentally ticking off the tick list. Can he cook? Yes. Is he tidy? Yes. Does he have enough wardrobe space to cater for an increasingly large manc? Yes. Thank God. I am fully aware that my priority should be, do we have room for the baby? But my knitwear is here and needed right now. Baby can wait.
We dress. He wears clothes fit for a winters day. I dress armed ready to face Antarctica. There are 3ft snow drifts and with the wind chill it is -24C now is not the time to worry about what one looks like. In fact, I mused, can anyone look attractive 5months pregnant, wearing 3 of everything, a make-shift face scarf and hiking boots?
Naturally I fully regretted the wardrobe whilst sat in the heated seat of the Porsche. But, if, IF we had broken down, who’d be laughing? Exactly.
We went to Wholefoods. Picture Waitrose on an organic trip where everything in this world costs treble of the same in Tesco. Where everything is grass fed and whipped up by the hands of a mythical goddess. No you can’t have loo roll but you can have paper woven by hand by an Eygpitian monk which will not only caress your cheeks but will inevitably make you richer in both body and mind. It’s $300000000.
Sausages and mash for tea I thought, let’s keep it real. BUT with the mindset of a post-Christmas January detox I decide to make sweet potato mash. Leaving a sea of nut butters behind me I head to the veg and I come across a potato display. Nothing makes sense. There are new potatoes but they are the size of grapes and are purple. There are yellow looking long potatoes, no jersey royals and I can’t see a King Edward for love nor money. HURRAH I squeal when I see a rusty, dirty looking sweet potato but what’s this? WTAF??? WHAT IS A YAM??? He hears me from the sausage counter. Everything ok he mouths? Tears roll. No, no everything is most definitely not ok. I do not belong in this organic world. I am going to have to leave America for I do not know what a YAM is.
I long for my clubcard and my blue and white stripes, where every little thing really does help.