Preparing for the off...

I start a CELTA course next Monday. Having initially been cautious about whether the fact that this meant I was no longer looking for full time, permanent work starting ASAP, I'd been coy about letting the jobcentre know until it was all absolutely certain and paid for. It is their job to get you off benefit, not to get you into work - so despite the fact that the course is designed to increase my employability, I was worried they would say I was no longer fulfilling the requirement of being available for work in the run-up to the start of the course. They may have some discretion on this and fortunately, on the day I told them I got the "good cop". I was still available for temporary work so sanity prevailed. Hopefully, by the end of the course, Brighton's language schools will be beating a path to my door wishing to employ me.

I have to admit, I haven't been keeping very conventional hours for the past few months. Our household has always winded down quite late and when my parents go to bed, usually a little after 12, I tend to retreat to my bedroom and enjoy my own private downtime - reading, writing, surfing etc, sometimes not actually sleeping till 2am or later and waking up correspondingly late. With the full time course obligating more regular hours and taking better care of myself, it seemed like a good idea to get into training beforehand.

On Sunday, I went for a bike ride with the cyclist I met on the train the other week. I was a little hesitant to accept his invitation at first. Both my bikes were in bad shape and I was worried they would fail in a way not easily fixable at the side of the road. Of course, there aren't that many things that you can't put right well enough to get you home. I was making excuses. Sometimes you need a kick up the arse to remind you of what you're capable of. Thankfully, I made the right decision.

It wasn't only my bike that was in bad shape, however. I get around on my bike, riding to and from the station at both ends of all my journeys, but I hadn't been on a proper ride for some time. I soon discovered the difference between fit and nearly fit - resistance. It's one thing to be cycling alongside someone at a steady pace on the flat, but it is when you hit a resistance such as a headwind or a light to moderate hill and he carries on regardless leaving you falling behind that you notice the difference. To be fair, I was riding a fundamentally slower bike than his - heavier and with wider tyres - and also carrying my 6kg Kryptonite lock (after having one bike stolen, for the sake of peace of mind it's worth knowing that you've done all that you reasonably can to prevent theft).

We took a pleasant route under the South Downs via the villages of Poynings, Fulking and Edburton, to Shoreham and back to Brighton. We almost stopped at the idyllic Shepherd and Dog pub, nestled in a crook of the downs before deciding after only 7km it was too early for a a pint. Eventually, after around 40km we finished up at The Evening Star, a traditional pub in Brighton where I was introduced to several artisan ales and a couple of Chris's fellow real ale enthusiasts.

Having had my unfitness drawn to my attention, I decided it would be good to get into moderately good shape before starting the course next week, so along with my early nights I decided a little healthy exercise would set me in good stead. Each morning this week, I've been for a short ride (15km, 40 minutes) at around 9am and every day it has been a little easier. It feels good. To top it off, I visited a teacher training open evening at the Falmer campus of the University of Brighton. Falmer is on the outskirts of Brighton to the north east of the centre and, disregarding the bloody great hill in the way, only about two thirds of the distance I'd been cycling in the mornings. Ditchling Beacon is only 1km at an average gradient of about 9%, but it's not inconsiderable when you haven't been getting out much.

Once the thought had entered my mind, there was never really any doubt that I'd choose to cycle over taking the train. Once you reach the top of the hill, it's downhill all the way after all! So with an air temperature of 2 degrees, I set out as yet undecided how I would get home a couple of hours later and a few degrees colder. That said, I did fix a light to my handlebars immediately before leaving home, at a time when there was enough daylight left to get me there safely. So I guess that was never really in any doubt either.

So 40km again, a little tired but generally feeling pretty good. I just have to make sure I've recovered physically before next Monday.

Tomorrow I sign off. I hope the advisor is in a good mood.

Good news.

Rosey has her visa. I will be starting a CELTA (teaching English qualification) course next Monday, and in preparation I'm going to bed before 12, getting up before 8 and going for a 45 bike ride every morning. The last time I went to bed before 12 must have been many years ago. All very positive!

Rosey will still have to do another couple of weeks at work and then, she will be going to India for a further two weeks to do a yoga retreat in the first or second week of March. After 8 months, another 2 weeks won't hurt, particularly when she's coming halfway round the world to start a new life. A couple of weeks contemplation with as much time and space as she needs to herself will be no bad thing. And after all the trepidation regarding the long dark nights of the English winter, there'll barely be any difference in daylight between here and Taipei when she arrives, close to the equinox. It'll still be a little colder though.


Having just received the good news, there's not a lot more to say. It will take a little time to sink in but what I can say is that already it feels as if the future is open again.

The baton passes

I haven't written anything in over two weeks. Does this mean I'm cured? No more angst ridden postings? Somehow I doubt it. From what I can tell, being an ex-expat is a lifelong condition, ameliorated by time but never quite cured.

Is this my first case of writer's block? I would like to think so. It sounds grand and somewhat tortured, as a true artist should be. However, I think this would be taking myself a little too seriously. I have certainly had ideas, they've just never quite made it onto the page.

Things have been busy round here. The most time consuming, though least significant event being the visit of parties from Hassocks's twin towns Montmirail in France and Wald Michelbach Germany, of which more later.

More seriously, just over 3 weeks ago, my dad had a TIA - a stroke-lite. Fortunately, it was very minor, the most visible ongoing symptom being tiredness but it's a wake-up call nonetheless. He's active, cycling to the shops and keeping up with County Council work, but trying to restrict it to few hours per day. Having recently upgraded to a digital TV with a host of channels meaning there is always something watchable, though no guarantee of anything unmissable, he is discovering the joys of channel surfing for the first time. Beyond a month, we can probably relax a little, but we'll be making sure this pillar of the local community doesn't take on more projects than would be sensible for a man 20 years his junior.

Two weeks ago, my late grandfather's close friend (girlfriend?) Iris died. They'd both been widowed quite young and knew each other for many years though they never married, one suspects because at over ten years his junior she had no desire to be widowed again. Iris suffered from Alzheimers disease for several years, the cruelest blow given that my grandad suffered from this himself 25 years ago and when he came to live in a nursing home near us, she unfailingly made the journey from London every week, walking 2 miles from the station and 2 miles back, even in the depths of winter.

As I write, she is making her final journey. At two hours drive away, dad decided that having felt particularly tired yesterday, it would be prudent not to undertake a full day out under stressful conditions. Mum and I decided we'd be happier if one of us stayed at home with him and since I don't drive and the crematorium is not easily accessible, I stayed and she went.

I feel a little relieved and a little guilty about this. Like Iris, I find funerals quite difficult. She didn't come to my granddad's funeral but instead stayed at our house "to make the tea". So she wouldn't have blamed me. However, having been absent for the past 10 years and seen her only twice since her diagnosis, I feel a little like I walked away long ago.

It was upsetting to see her this summer, though I was much heartened by the fact that having worked for The Met, she instantly recognised the TARDIS/police telephone box in my wedding photos - photoshopped pre-wedding photos are all the rage in Taiwan. I think I knew I was saying goodbye then and when the message came recently that she was unconscious and unlikely to recover, I was uncharacteristically composed. She died two days later in the company of my sister playing wartime songs on her clarinet. I was similarly at ease when I heard then though in the emotional atmosphere of a funeral I imagine I would have been very visibly emotional.

It was time to break my silence and write something. Today of all days, what could be more important to write about than how I relate to the death of someone who I'd barely seen over the last ten years despite the fact that she was as close to a grandmother as I had. It's a reminder of the large chunk of life here that I've missed, in particular that transitional period when the baton is passed to your generation and the preceding one takes on the role of elders and dare I say it, grandparents. And like Iris, it's never coming back.