Home is where the heart is?

I detect a change, albeit one occurring at a glacial pace.

For the past five months I've been living in the house I grew up in, supported in part by the state and in part by my parents. I like this house, it's a good house. It's a medium to large Victorian family home of which my parents are the current trustees. It's old and rambling with layers of archaeology beneath the floorboards and wallpaper. It has a large, welcoming kitchen and a long and somewhat unkempt garden, reflecting the interior of the house. My parents have made modifications over the years - mostly putting right the vandalism inflicted upon it in the 1950s and 60s. Some day, that duty of care and responsibility will pass to someone else.

A while ago, I felt that any house I lived in would be measured up against this one. I wondered if I could ever truly love another home. I've spent years exercising my imagination thinking about what I'd do with it, given a free hand and unlimited budget. There are plenty of puzzles to be solved in an old house and I took great pleasure in visualising how I'd adapt the floorplans, landscape the garden and generally bend the property to my will, as I have with other homes too. But perhaps if I wish to exercise my imagination on a building, it should be one without baggage.

My parents moved in here when I was two and my dad was a year younger than I am now. We make our own life choices but a degree of comparison is inevitable. With no assets, no career and modest debts, to live the (not immodest) lifestyle that I grew up with, seems completely unattainable at this point.

Slowly, as the nights draw in, I am becoming less comfortable in what has been my only permanent home in this country. I am feeling more claustrophobic, more ill-at-ease, more aware that in two and a half months my wife will arrive in England and my relationship to everything here will change.

On the positive side, I have visited other people's homes, ones that differ in size and shape from my parents', ones without gardens or views of the South Downs and actually thought, "I could see myself in something like this". Job and money notwithstanding.

How long will I be an ex-expat?

I''ve been the object of a lot of good will since I've been back. People have been very sympathetic and understanding towards me. I've been back for more than three months now and am beginning to wonder how long it can last.

In my first month, I made a concerted effort, applying for all the teaching assistant jobs that came up and successfully gaining eight or so interviews. Arguably, I lost momentum over the school holidays, with no schools jobs to apply for and no Plan B to put in their place. There was the hope that further TA jobs would come up in September and that my questions would answer themselves. There have been a number of positions come up but I've been less successful in gaining interviews, perhaps because some schools have a blanket policy of not interviewing candidates they've interviewed before. This seems a little absurd, assuming they interviewed 6 acceptable candidates and chose the best, the other five would remain at least acceptable and might prove better than any new applicants.

In the absence of any further TA opportunities coming up for the time being, I need a Plan B. This writing is useful, but it's no substitute for full time paid work.

The premise of this blog is that it aint easy being an ex-expat. But you can't keep on telling people that forever and you can't keep on defining yourself as an ex-expat forever! People will get bored and your life won't move forward. You have to do something new, here and now.

Hopefully, things will get better. And what then for the blog?