Herself is working in London. She spent some time living in Chelsea (delightful part of the world in my view) but it was a bit pricey for her (and perhaps a bit staid) and she is now ensconced in her happy place (North London, since you’re asking, leaving behind the groves of Chelsea Physick Garden). She loves London.
The job in the City seems to keep her in until all hours. I often get a call from her at 10 or 11 at night in the taxi home from work. It is a bit grim. I wouldn’t say she loves it. But a steady income is not to be sneezed at. I have spent many years telling her not to stick at a job she hates, I hope I haven’t been too persuasive in that regard.
She spent a good while last year supporting herself by tutoring and although it did allow her greater flexibility (when she was in Italy on holidays she enterprisingly rented a room and kept tutoring- only about €16 an hour to rent a small office, who’d have thought it?), it was a slightly precarious existence. Perhaps she is destined to return to it, at least temporarily.
Swings and roundabouts, I guess.
I do wonder whether she will ever come home – and she may yet move further afield than London.
Among the many things that have flooded into my house from my parents’ house like a tidal wave are letters. The letters my mother wrote home to her mother from England and my own letters to my mother from Belgium. Although the Princess and I have the, basically free, video call, in a throwback to an earlier age, I still send her letters occasionally. Three generations of emigrants, right here. Admittedly, relatively affluent, lucky emigrants, going for exciting opportunities rather than necessity but emigrants all the same with all that that entails.
These thoughts are prompted by her birthday which is today. 23, who would have thought it? Not me for sure.
It turns out that the years are, in fact, short.
