Transition

Cor blimey, I've finally got a chance to sit down at a computer and do some typing. Well, first thing's first, the more observant of you will have noticed that my address has changed from "Leicester" to "Boston", implying some modicum of success in my transition to the States. Second thing's second, let me bore you with the events leading up to my being here in front of a Mac in The Hub of the Universe (or just The Hub. Yes, really, that's the term by which Bostonians apparently refer to their city. That or Beantown, which presumably accounts for the sporadic whiffs one occasionally encounters). I apologise in advance if this gets inordinately long.

I left you when my visa had just arrived, and it was time to book a flight - right at the juncture when various nutters were trying to blow up trans-atlantic flights with baby milk. This had the side effect of flights becoming remarkably cheap, and I noticed that one airline offered a return flight to Boston (returning in December) for about $600; $15 more than the one-way. I had agreed that I would pay the difference between the return and the single, so, as a Yorkshireman, I was reasonably impressed by this. I duly despatched an email to the nice lady in Boston who was to book my flight, indicating when I'd like to fly and suggesting this particular flight as one she might book. I promptly received an email thanking me for my email and asking if I'd like her to book a flight and, if so, which one. I politely replied that my sending her the flight details in the previous email constituted a hint (rather too subtle, it seems) that I might like her to book this particular one. She got it this time and booked the flights.

I was then left to the rather emotional task of clearing my desk (sniff) and, in true style of one about to leave for the States, painting my new house. The one I now won't be able to live in for two years. Emma and I decided to keep it because it will mean we don't have to get on the property ladder in two years' time, by which time the prices will have inevitably doubled, and we will have had (hopefully) a tennant paying our mortgage for two years. Here I must acknowledge the significant help of my mum and dad and Em's family, without whom we would still have hideous purple and/or nicotine-coloured walls.

So, it was eventually off to Heathrow, with Em, mum, dad and my brother to see me off. The baggage allowance for a trans-atlantic flight is 2 suitcases, each weighing up to 30kg. I was sure that I had packed too much and would have to pay the extra-baggage charge, and for two reasons was mildly annoyed to see that the heaviest bag was only 22kg. First, I could have packed my boxes of Corbieres afterall. Second, I must be getting wimpish in my old age because I could hardly lift the thing! Well, it was very strange to be waving goodbye to loved-ones I knew I wouldn't be seeing again for a good few months, and it was hard to join the security queue without a lump in the throat.

Having thoroughly convinced the authorities that I wasn't in the posession of any explosive Evian, they let me board the plane. Now, I don't know whether I have a sign on my forehead, visible only to airline check-in staff, that reads "I like small kids. Surround me with small kids. Make 'em grumpy! Give 'em lungs! Make them scream solidly for SIX AND A HALF HOURS!", but it seems that whenever I fly I get surrounded by the little buggers. Parenting, I admit, is not a skill we are born with, it's one that takes years of practice to acquire and again I must acknowledge my own fantastic parents in this respect, but surely even the most incompetent parent would notice their kids screaming and bouncing on the seat (oh yes there's the bouncing - that's if they're in front of you, behind it's the relentless kicking) for six hours and - here's the crux - do something about it! Like inform them that if they don't shut their over-active traps they're going to be put out of the window, that sort of thing. I'm sure I'll make a great parent one day.

The other thing that I'd like to mention is equal opportunities employment. Now, this is a Good Thing and should be encouraged whenever, and whereever appropriate. I say "appropriate", because the gentleman who was our particular air steward for the flight was, despite being very good in the service department (he was obliging in replacing my glasses of wine, which had a habit of evaporating in the altitude-induced low air pressure), rather rotund. Spherical, in fact. I stress that I am against discrimination, but even I question the wisdom of employing as an air steward someone who is wider than the aisles.

Anyway, I am now Here. I have an office, a flat, but no furniture. Tonight I sleep on an airbed in some sheets that I am shortly to acquire. Everybody at BU seems very friendly and helpful, but I have vast amounts of administration to endure.

And to be honest, I'm a little homesick.