Expats expect no sympathy from folk back home...they’re not idiots. Fair enough. Whether exile from the UK is chosen or work-driven, it is assumed that life abroad must be easier than it is in 21st century Britain. An expat is therefore a lush, a scrounger, a gin-soaked lardy-ass with a leathery skin from too much sun. Oh and rich, with staff, a yacht, and maybe even a mistress. And of course, I’m the lowest of the low...an expat wife, a non-working hanger-on, a trailing spouse. I get to experience the good times through no merit of my own. And even worse, I’m an oil-wife, which is about as politically incorrect as a woman could be. Shame on me.
I am also far too much of a wimp to argue. All I know is, the next few months will be a logistical madness of where to live, how to live, what to drive, what to wear, what to chuck, what to keep. Apply for this, join up for that, close this, finish that. And then, there’s managing everyone’s psychological well-being, the unforeseen dilemmas and emotional traumas that inevitably crop up along with moving a family from A to B.
Besides all this, my job is also to savour, to remember, to cherish this place. So most days, I’ll be doing an UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING, with which to blog-you-rigid.
Norway has been very good to us. But yes, I am exceedingly excited to think that home is hovering just beyond that enticing horizon.