I have been bored stiff this week. A coincidental combination of C’s exams, my injured cycling-leg and the reopening of the schools has meant I’ve been rather static.
Though not much movement was made, some decisions were. We finally agreed that Dad will accompany me to France to help me settle in. I think we’ll fly out at the end of September, as currently I am homeless with no leads. All this talk makes it seem so real, but it won’t hit me until Dad leaves and I’m stranded in a rural French town.
I think I’ll be writing diaries much more. Being where I am, I doubt there’ll be tons to occupy myself with unless I make a real effort. I visualise hot chocolate, scratching across a notepad as the light greys. Emotions swirling, thoughts on culture, towns and people; descriptions I must engrave to remember.
It hasn’t hit me that I’m leaving. I think of the future months – November, December, February – and I see the past. I imagine lecture theatres, exam halls, parties, naval functions, the simple Glasgow subway. Last week, I saw my favourite tea loving duo. They were discussing cadet things, and I said, “I can’t wait for that!” only to have to retract my statement when I realised I wouldn’t be in the country.
I don’t want to say bye to people. I’m afraid of the inevitable changes when I’m gone. What if something happens to someone? Best friends could drift far on the waves. C could decide he wants somebody who isn’t hundreds of miles away. I may return to the naval unit to a sea of uncharted faces.
Admittedly, the last is the most likely. Yet I must learn not to worry, to know that these things are out of my hands. Though frequently my heart stops at what I grasp firmly in my palms.
Forms, flights, flats, fees, friends… f**k! And French follow-up, otherwise we’ll have difficulties boarding the plane.