England, compressed

I really want, on these trips back to the UK, for P to soak up some Englishness. I want her to develop an easy familiarity with English manners and customs, food, and just the general vibe. A big part of it is understanding the way things used to be. So she can read - as I did - a Milly Molly Mandy book, or a Secret Seven, and fully understand what a blacksmith is or why someone might be beating their carpets.

What better way to achieve this than a quick tour around a model village? So we headed to Bekonscot. All of English life is there, and much of it still as it was when the village was built in 1929. A blacksmith, a town square, a race course, a little harbor, lots of trains (pre-Beeching, of course) and just lots of English scenes. It was the perfect opportunity for me to explain the ways of our people.

'Look, there are some people playing cricket', I said. 'Where is the cricket?' she said, looking, I think, for a chirruping insect.

'I don't see any cricket'

Brownies around a maypole

A town cryer.

 'He's telling everybody the news,' I explained. 'But why?' came the inevitable answer. Is now a good time to explain that there was a time without TV and internets? No, onward to the 1930s zoo, complete with a chimps tea party.

Anyone who loves Curious George is perfectly comfortable with the idea of dressing up chimps to put on a show. So P had no questions about this bit.

The only thing I couldn't explain was the ring of people dressed in yellow and brown, bending over. P said they were doing their exercises. I'm not sure but didn't have a better answer. Suggestions welcome...

All in all it was a very efficient way to cover a lot of ground in a short space of time. Now her education is complete we can relax and enjoy the rest of the trip rather more aimlessly.

Coming home

Leaving (what used to be) home was tough.

Saying 'see you next year' to your sisters and your best friends, is just wrong. Thank goodness for those we could say 'see you in September' to. Guests may not come as thick and fast as they did when we lived in Malibu - now everyone has kids, or proper jobs, or both - but as long as we're living by the beach I think we'll be a destination for friends and family.

As for the rest, those we don't know quite when we'll see again, well, it was very hard to say goodbye. 'See you on Skype' is not a happy phrase.

Still, coming home was good.

Not a terrible place to come back to, after all

Highlights of the return include seeing Lady P reunited with her nanny and the reconvention of their adorable mutual appreciation society. Also running the woodchip and along the beach, and a bike ride with TLOML up to El Segundo and back. Basically getting back into the lovely outdoorsy Hermosan lifestyle.

And becoming reacquainted with the enormous range of Cheerios you Americans enjoy.

The only Cheerios sold in the UK are sugar coated, which I discovered having bought a monster size box. Well, we were on holiday after all. So Lady P enjoyed 'holiday cereal' for a month and is now back on the wholegrain, low(er) sugar version. In fact, we are all eating rather more healthily now we're back in the land of unappealing tasteless cheese and oddly sweet bread.

I've enjoyed catching up on the beach with an old friend and setting the world to rights over poolside margaritas with newer friends.  And last night we had cocktails and seafood in a quintessentially SoCal restaurant, which was almost good enough to make me never want to leave this country again.

I did say almost. Roll on next summer and our next trip home.

Summer as it is supposed to be

Last Spring TLOML and I moved into that sweet little garden flat, and anticipated a glorious English summer. I remember sitting on the Heath in t-shirts during a freakishly warm spell in March, salivating at the thought of the months ahead, to be spent in sunny London, replete with picnics in the park, barbecues in the garden, and afternoons spent sipping bitter shandy in beer gardens. That, for me, is what the quintessential London summer involves. Plus we were getting married, the Olympics were coming to town, it was a Jubilee year generous with bank holidays - all signs were good.

In the event, it was a bit of a washout. Not the bit where we got married. That was perfect (despite the rain most of the day). And yes, the Olympics were brilliant - but somewhat anomalous. My main memory of them now is of how continually surprised we all were that London hadn't ground to a halt after all, and the volunteers were really surprisingly nice. But most importantly of all, it rained all summer long. It was the wettest summer in 100 years. Not such an auspicious start to our new life in London, and not a great encouragement to my sun-loving husband.

This summer by contrast is shaping up to be everything an English summer should be. Blue skies and bright sunshine every day for the past couple of weeks - we've had more sunny days in the last fortnight than all of 2012, it seems to me. Long, light evenings where it's actually warm enough to sit outside and eat. Again, we've eaten dinner in our yard more times in July than we managed all summer long in Fox Corner last year. And it's a north facing yard, half a mile from the chilly North sea, at that. What's more, 2013 is an Ashes summer.  Five weeks of wall-to-wall cricket, to be listened to on the radio sitting on a rug in a park, or on the beach, with a backdrop of kids playing their own 2, or 3, or 5-a-side version of the game.

Maybe I look back with rose tinted glasses. Perhaps my four summers in the US coloured my homesick view an even deeper rose. (Actually I was only in the US for two summers, but I'm going to count the two Winters in Malibu as summers too). But this is what I remember English summers to be like. All strawberries and cricket and sandals. And days like these:

Blue skies and green fields

Another sunny day at the seaside

Sadly I've already established you can't live somewhere just for the weather. Otherwise I think I could make a case for staying here forever.

A return trip gives pause for thought

Every now and again someone asks me 'Do you miss anything about the States?'. 'Not much, besides the beach in Malibu, of course, but I've been missing that for a year already,' I say. 'Nope, the only thing I really miss is the people'. By 'the people', I don't mind all the people of the USA. I mean the friends I made there, and the family I got to know. I miss those guys, of course.

But I didn't think I was missing anything else particularly.

This weekend in New York I realised I'd been lying to myself. I do miss some things. Namely:

1. The food. That Smith and Mills burger. Fresh, plump oysters at a price that didn't put me off my dinner.  And brunch, glorious brunch. I'd gladly trade the Full English for a lifetime of pancakes, and Cookshop's dandelion and egg salad.
2. Cocktails, and table service. We had a drink at Bar Pleiades on the Upper East Side, which is one of my favourite bars in Manhattan, and it made me wistful for fabulously well-crafted cocktails, gracefully served. Mind you, it really isn't fair to compare a fancy hotel bar with our local Kentish Town boozer. If I want a posh cocktail in London I could go to a fancy hotel bar here. We just don't do that sort of thing here as much. Hmmm... new resolution: go to more fancy hotel bars in London. Zetter Townhouse is going to get to know us pretty well, I think.
3. A walk-in mani-pedi for $33. My Kentish Town mani costs more, takes longer, and actually isn't quite as good.

Strangely, I feel better having realised that I felt this way. There was something a bit cold-hearted of me, leaving that wonderful country behind with barely a shrug. Like the whole experience was wasted on me somehow.

America wasn't wasted on me! I do miss it! I suspect the list of 'things I miss' will grow, as time goes by. For now though, I'm happy to be back in rainy old London.

Remember me?

As I re-establish the rhythms of my former life - albeit in a slighly new shape - I have some relationships to rebuild. Thanks to the wonders of email, skype, facebook and cheap flights, hanging out with my old friends is just as it ever was. Only now we can skip the obligatory 'so, what's new?' warm-up chat and go straight into 'did you see Gypsy Wedding last night?'.

The Sunday walk with chitchat. Blessedly unchanged.

The locals who made up the fabric of my NW5 life, however, have been harder to reconnect with. I don't recognise any of the bar staff at my old locals. The chaps who run Twin Peaks, my old corner shop (so-called after the twins who run it, or the hills of Hampstead and Highgate, depending on who you believe), didn't seem to recognise me at all. This saddened me since I was in there at least once a day for 7 years. Perhaps they didn't want to gush, and embarrass me.

I was cheered when the staff in Tips & Toes remembered me, and asked me how their pedicure compared with the American standard I had become used to. I lied and said theirs was better, even though it takes twice as long and costs 50% more. I just want to be back in their 'locals' gang again, that's all.

More important, of course, are my relationships with my lovely nieces, nephews, and goddaughters. Our recent trip to La Clusaz was shared with my younger sister and her family, so that was a good start. Her 16 month old twins need to know that their Aunt does not just exist on Skype. After a few days I think they came to know me as more than just 'that lady in the computer'.

A trip to my older sister in Cambridge last week, and Easter weekend weekend with my oldest sister and her 2 kids, means that all my nieces now know - or have been reminded - that there is a real person behind the 'I heart NY ' t-shirts, and American candy that arrive periodically in the post. They might be a bit disappinted when they realise that this is the tradeoff: in-person bedtime stories means no more marshmallows and toys in the post.

Let them do what they like on your iPad and the children will let you back in their life

My goddaughters took a little warming up. But once I let them put their sticky fingers all over my ipad, or jump on my bed with their muddy shoes on, they were won over. Children are so simple. Let them do what they want, and they will love you for it. Ah, the luxury of godparenting.

Unfortunately I can't indulge my cat in the same way. He will need to be disciplined and restrained to protect our nice new sofa. I'm hoping Jack is as easily bribed - with food - as he used to be.

Homelessness

Due to visa delays and a certain amount of naivety about the London lettings market, TLOML and I have been homeless since the first of February. That's almost eight weeks.

Thanks to the generosity of that Outstanding Family, the one with the enviable property portfolio, we do have a roof over our heads. A trip to IKEA, my storage unit and some elbow grease, made it habitable. We do, after all, have a bed.

Important clothes can be hung.

A quick fix with a nail has rendered this formerly three-legged table usable as a desk. And TLOML rummaged in the basement of our squat to find this fridge and the telly. It only gets three rather fuzzy channels, and TLOML is bitterly disappointed with the quality of BBC2's daytime scheduling but it's something. I may be the only homeless person in the country who has a TV licence (blame my upbringing). Oh, and I've put the calendar that nice Brazilian translator gave me above the mantelpiece to brighten the place up.

Still, we can't really cook. That's because during our trip to the storage unit we dug up salad servers and lobster crackers but no truly useful utensils.

We pilfered the knife and spoon from the trusting pubs of NW5. They just leave these things lying around, the fools. So we can boil water for tea in the saucepan the former resident left, but that's about it. To be honest I'm not sure if we'd want to stay in, even if we could cook.

The ultimate win-win at the moment is to babysit for friends. We can make dinner in their fully equipped kitchen and watch their many-channelled TV. They get a big night out and we get that best prize of all, a nice night in.

TLOML is in the States this week, no doubt enjoying some home comforts. And I am going to check out Fox Corner this weekend, in the hope the work is complete and we can start planning to move in.

Till then, keep buying the Big Issue folks.

Postcode rivalry

Friends, family and readers know that the move back to London for me was not motivated by a general desire to live in the world’s greatest city. Rather, it was about moving home. Home to my old manor, with familiar pubs and perhaps almost as importantly, dear friends, living close by.

Some may have seen recent posts about the flat we’re about to rent – you know, the one with the foxes and the kiwi tree – and thought I had got exactly what I wanted. TLOML has a special ‘happy now?’ expression he adopts whenever we chat about how brilliant living in Fox Corner will be.

Far from it. Five streets away from what I wanted, in fact. Our new flat is in NW3, which is technically Hampstead. We will be very close to Keats’ Grove with its gorgeous Queen Anne houses and old gardens. A gentle uphill stroll will take us to old Hampstead Village with its excellent pubs (The Hollybush being a particular favourite), ancient alleyways, and a good branch of The Gap.

Doesn't sound so awful, I know. Okay, I’ll admit it, Hampstead is one of London’s oldest and most charming of villages. I just really really like Kentish Town.

Kentish Town occupies NW5, which starts, as I said, about 5 streets or a 3 minute walk away from Fox Corner. Kentish Town, in stark contrast to Hampstead, has a distinctly scruffy high street. There are very few chain stores. No-one travels there from other postcodes for an afternoon stroll and a nice lunch. And yet…

And yet… it has brilliant independent shops including an excellent bookshop, a nice little stationers, a big organic grocers with a Neal’s Yard counter, and a Lebanese foodhall that sells 3 different kinds of carrot jam. Being close to Camden means that sometimes young rocker types get lost and end up in NW5 (though rumours of its being ‘the next Shoreditch’ have never really been convincing). And there are about a dozen excellent, independent pubs serving really good food. Admittedly there are sometimes crazy people shouting at themselves in the Post Office, which you don't get so much of in Hampstead. And rather more tanning shops than your average North London high street too.

In a way the scruffiness makes it even more appealing: it’s that hidden gem quality, I suppose.

Anyway, as I said, Fox Corner is not in Kentish Town. It is over the border in NW3. This strikes me as a supreme compromise on my part. TLOML is not so convinced. Apparently being 5 streets away from where I wanted to live ought to count as a big win for me.

In many ways we may have found the perfect compromise. We can stroll west one day, and enjoy the beauty and fancy bakeries of Hampstead. The next day we can head east and savour the secret charms and quality beers of Kentish Town.

Truly, home is where the heart is. And even though my heart had a leaning to be five streets further East, I think it’ll be burstingly happy in NW3, with TLOML, the foxes and the kiwis.

Falling in love again

London is lovely. I always knew it was lovely. But returning with fresh eyes has made me love it even more.

There are some changes, like the growth of hip, independent coffee shops (I know, we're a bit behind Seattle, San Francisco and New York on this one. I think the hipster coffee movement was totally stifled by the onslaught of Starbucks on London, which set us back a decade). And the rash of Boris bike stands that is spreading gradually wider. There's that brilliant new crossing at Oxford Circus. And that new cool building behind Centrepoint, which is one of many new landmark buildings I lilke.

And there are some brilliant things about London which have been there for hundreds of years, and are still there, and still brilliant. After the prefabs of Malibu and the concrete canyons of Manhattan, I love these old things even more.

For example, doors like this:

And shops like this:

And parks and houses like this:

The hunt is over

At last! We have viewed about fifteen flats in the last couple of weeks and the novelty of snooping around other people's homes was starting to wear off.

We saw some madness. Like this strange flat, with a shower conveniently placed next to the bed:

Weird, right?

We also saw some lovely but impractical homes. Like this beautifully restored 3 bedroom house with a kitchen that was barely big enough to make toast in:

I realise it looks like I'm obsessed with bathrooms. But look at this lovely loo! The rest of the house was gorgeous too. But we need a kitchen we can swing a cat in and chop veggies at the same time.

... and speaking of impractical, how about a study that's 3' wide?

 

Rather cramped.

We also decided against some very smart flats that were way above our budget and frankly, a little too posh for us. And some very gloomy flats that were brilliantly located, and cheap, but deeply depressing.

In the end we went for the sweet, spacious, slightly scruffy garden flat with the kiwi tree. The foxes appear to have moved out. The landlady is lovely and doing lots of work to tidy the place up and improve security. We think we will be very happy there. Fingers crossed for a move in at the start of April.

This is the jolly red door and nice tiled steps at the end of our hunt

A far cry from Rabbit Hutch Towers

In our own personal tribute to the way Whitney lived her life, TLOML and I have moved into a crack house.

Original architectural features

Who needs furniture?

Until about a year ago, this place was occupied by an elderly lady who last decorated during the Thatcher era. Since then it has remained empty, a rambling and fusty palace for dust and spiders to gather. It isn't actually a crack house, to be clear. But you can see how if the wrong squatters moved in, it could work as one.

In about a year's time it will be a gorgeous, spacious, high-spec, family home. We are lucky enough to know the outstanding family who will be moving in: a brilliant couple and three particularly bright and entertaining daughters (the youngest is only 9 months but already displays her older sisters' fine sense of humour).

But until the builders move in, rip everything out and make it all shiny and new, it's our little crack house. We have our home comforts: a day bed, a kettle and a couple of mugs, and the windowsill for a fridge. Since the photo above was taken we've fashioned a stand-in wardrobe from the hooks on the walls. We have about 5 times the floor space of the Rabbit Hutch - even if you discount the creepy lower ground floor with spooky abandoned dolls and a hissing, crackling light fitting - although admittedly there is no doorman. We're moments from Parliament Hill Fields, and spitting distance from a pub with free wifi and a decent curry house.

If our generous hosts, the Outstanding Family, aren't careful we could get quite comfortable...

Slim pickings

Apologies to regular readers for the extended absence. Big Corp UK welcomed me back to the country with open arms, a number of face-to-face meetings, and a lot of time consuming urgent pieces of work. It was not quite the soft landing I was hoping for. Dentist appointments were cancelled, alarm clocks were set for rude o'clock, and my plans to spend my days mooching around North London looking at flats - and my evenings writing jolly posts about it - were shattered.

TLOML and I did at least make a bit of a start on our flat hunt. We started with the estate agents in Kentish Town, who cover Dartmouth Park, where I most want to live. The red dots on this map show our route, from one end of the high street to the other:

We visited 8 estate agents, with our very reasonable set of requirements (2-3 bedrooms, outside space) and what we have been told is a good budget. There are, apparently, only two flats in all of Kentish Town that meet our spec. Just two. Imagine if I'd told them about TLOML's dreams of two bathrooms and a wine cellar: we'd have been laughed out of town.

Apparently 'when people move into this area, they never leave'. As a long standing fan of NW5 I can understand that inclination. But at the same time, it just can't actually be true, surely? Literally, no one ever moves? No young family ever decides to stop renting 3 bedrooms in NW5 and buy 4 bedrooms in N19? No old lady decides to give up her period garden flat for a new build with a balcony? No one ever dies? (Not that I'm wishing anyone dead. But give it time... I could go there).

Welcome to the neighbourhood where no-one ever moves. Which rather begs the question: if no-one ever moves how come there are so many estate agents?

Ash Wednesday

7am, Heathrow

 TLOML got there before me, and after a quick hello I insisted on posing for this photo. Which I know is odd. But I had this great idea about how cute it would be to there waiting with my little sign: I at least wanted a photo of my (poorly executed) idea.

He's here! Let the next chapter begin! Flathunting in NW5 tomorrow...

Shrove Tuesday and Ash Wednesday

Today is Shrove Tuesday, the last day before Lent.

In Rio they call it Carnival, and go about like this:

In New Orleans they call it Mardi Gras and this happens:

In London we call it Pancake Day and this is how we roll:

Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday. Which - without giving away too much of TLOML's identity - is brilliant. Because it is the day he arrives in London to start our new life. Despite my Christian upbringing, I'll be celebrating Ash Wednesday with a joyful exuberance this year.

A return to the rut

This post is dedicated to two special groups of readers:
1. Those people (pity them!) who have never spent time on Hampstead Heath and wonder why I have such a bee in my bonnet about living close by.
2. Those New Yorkers (thumb your teeth at them!) who think London's weather is relentlessly awful.

Today I renewed my commitment to a longstanding tradition. As per the NW5 tradition/ routine, I took a constitutional yomp across Hampstead Heath, with 3 friends and traditional 'what did you do last night' chat. It was a gorgeous, crisp, chilly, sunny day.

See? We do get blue skies here (I shouldn't mention yesterday's wall-to-wall drizzle..)

We headed, without discussion, up Parliament Hill, the natural starting point for any Heath yomp. It was the first time I've walked up there for at least a year. The view which was so familiar - from the many years when I walked up Parliament Hill at least once a week - has changed significantly. 'The Shard' is really shockingly tall! Anyway, that's not news to anyone who lives in London and I was roundly mocked for commenting, so I won't comment further.

It isn't just me who thinks The Shard is ridiculously tall. It's just that everyone else got over it months ago.

Then we struck out, north across the Heath, to the Pergola, which is something of a hidden gem. The pergola is an elevated walkway, essentially an Edwardian folly, in the grounds of Leverhulme House (the Hampstead pile of soap baron, Mr Lever, of Unilever fame, now converted into fancy flats). Even at this time of year, with bare branches and barely a bud in sight, it's a lovely place to walk.

Someone else's pic of the pergola, in summer. I think you get the picture though.

Our meander took us South via the Vale of Health, a cluster of cottages where poor people used to live when Hampstead was a fashionable spa town. And back, along the avenue which cuts East-West across the Heath, to the Dartmouth Park side. Where the tennis courts and good places to eat and drink are.

As often happens when I mooch around NW5 with friends, we bumped into some other friends doing much the same meander. Hot chocolate at Kalendar as the final light faded was the perfect end to the afternoon.

On the home straits, as the sun sets over Hampstead

 
And that pleasant, and rather pedestrian ('scuse the pun) afternoon, is just one of the many reasons I'm so happy to be home. The NW5 comfort bubble is as comfortable and enjoyable as ever.

Location, location, location

It's not just the title of a brilliant British TV show I really missed in the States. (Selling New York did soften the blow). It's also an important topic of discussion as we plan our hunt for a nest.

Now, I should admit that I have been accused of being a little closed-minded in the past, when it comes to London neighbourhoods. It's all about North London for me. By which I mean, the area around Hampstead Heath. And I say 'the area around Hampstead Heath' but really I mean, quite specifically, Dartmouth Park, which before Ed Miliband moved in was a hidden gem of a neighbourhood. It's close to the Heath, has a couple of excellent gastro pubs, and is leafy and quiet.

I like West London, and East London perfectly fine. I know there are good people, pubs, and parks there too. I even go there sometimes. But I lived so long and was so happy in what one ex called my 'NW5 comfort bubble' that I can't really imagine living anywhere else.

TLOML is far more open-minded (though even he wouldn't seriously entertain living south of the river, thank goodness). Occasionally, to fend off pangs of conscience I look at rental ads in London Fields, or St John's Wood, just to see what's out there. But I quickly scuttle back to the NW5 / NW3 / N6 listings.

A few weeks ago I helpfully printed out and marked up some maps of the area around Hampstead Heath for TLOML. Just so he could apply the same filters as I do to the London landscape. Green are the twenty streets I would most like to live on. Yellow I could, reluctantly, deal with. If the flat was a palace. Red is a no-no. And if it's off the map? Well, it's off the map.

Hmm. Perhaps those accusers have a point. I guess I am pretty narrow-minded.

In my defence, moving to London isn't about going on an exciting voyage of discovery. It's about going home. And home is, well, somewhere up near Hampstead Heath.

I'm not ruling anywhere out yet. As I stayed at the Gambler's pad last week, in the heart of the Eastern yellow zone (that's not an official Ordnance Survey term, but just refers to my map above), I opened my mind to the charms of Kentish Town proper. But it's almost a ten minute walk from the Heath, and I know that sounds silly, but when you're used to being just across the road from it, a ten minute walk sounds awfully far. So my fingers remain tightly crossed we can find a suitable nest somewhere in the green zone.

Meanwhile, TLOML's visa application is safely in the hands of the good people at the UK Border Agency, and he, marooned without passport, is kipping on our favourite New Yorker's sofa. I am in a hotel on Copacabana beach, gazing past Rio's palm trees, daydreaming of grey-skied Kentish Town.

Admittedly my situation is more fun than his, but still, we're both in limbo. And I'm trying to be patient, but oh! I can't wait for the flat hunt to begin.

My return to London, in numbers

You know, like those annoying, those lazy newspaper articles. I see now why they do it. It's an easy way to summarise some loosely linked thoughts in a, well, yes, lazy way.

So here it is:

• 6 nights at Number 25, the Gambler's flat. A very stylish, comfortable bachelor pad, with a great big telly and some lovely mid-century furniture.
• Three solid hours with each of my London goddaughters. If I had a competition for which of them was the brightest, sweetest and funniest, they would tie.
• 3 favourite bus routes. 134, C2, 46, getting me from NW5 to wherever I need to be. I love London buses. Disproportionately so.
• 30 hours, at least, of BBC News 24 ...and about the same of of Radio 4. I'm now fully up to speed with the Archers, the cricket, and all that boring-yet-fascinating background information you don't know you're picking up but will quote in a conversation sometime very soon.
  
• 8 to 10 cups of tea, and 2 glasses of wine, with each of my Handmaidens-of-Honour (the HoHs). Deep, deep joy at the long, langourous chats that can happen when they aren't being squinched between two Transatlantic flights, or conducted via Skype.
• £1.50 for a perfect Americano from the Wine Cellar, Kentish Town's long-standing Portugese deli. And I didn't crack and throw in a pastel de nata, those delicious little custard tarts they sell.

By my standards, that's a pretty good week in Kentish Town. And only about 2000 'I miss you' texts sent to TLOML.

And now... I'm off for 10 days in Rio.

Annoyingly I am leaving Rio the day the carnival - that massive, world famous, street party - starts. (It's the price of a visa to stay another night - I just can't do it). So I imagine the number of passenger on my flight home will not be much higher than 1.

The continuing tales of Isadora Watts

A couple of kind readers have asked whether I plan to continue my blog. After all, I suppose it was about my life in America, and all the funny things those Americans say and do. And that chapter has now closed.

But my life is still pretty transatlantic. I am noticing all sorts of things about London that I had previously taken for granted. Like how nice the tube smells. I'm not kidding, I really do like it. And how freeing it is to be able to 'jaywalk', as Americans put it. And how they ask you how many bags you want at M&S - which I much prefer to the Gristedes approach of giving you 2 bags for a pint of milk even though you have repeatedly said 'no bag thanks' (must be my accent).

Plus, the whole 'Eastbound' thread is not over yet. We have some adventures ahead, starting, I hope, with TLOML's successful visa application. The process should only take a couple of weeks but given the length of our evidence submission, they may need more time...

The 140 pages of evidence attached to our visa application

When TLOML arrives we will embark on our hunt for a flat with American style amenities: 1 bathroom per person, a waste disposal, draught-free windows, etc. They're not impossible dreams but still rather hard to find in the converted 19th century townhouses of North London.

And then there'll be all the fun of watching TLOML assimilate. Hearing him grumble about the length of swimming pools and the reluctance of waiters to provide tapwater will be entertaining, as will the novelty of him being a foreigner and saying daft things like 'sidewalk' and 'fanny pack'.

Okay, so I haven't really sold it very well. I will be blogging about bureacracy, flat hunting and well-worn language difference cliches. But I will try to make it entertaining. So please, do stick with me...