Tonight’s plan for once the kids are sleeping consists of the following…
1. Arrange the porter service at Heathrow because we have 5 large bags (including an 80 pound bag of my medications for the year), four carry-ons, and two children, both of whom are likely to be incredibly cranky after a night of traveling.
2. Car service from Heathrow to Cambridge because every other method of transit requires multiple transfers with said luggage and children and ends up costing every bit as much.
3. A good-sized grocery delivery from Tesco of essentials to arrive at our new home a couple of hours after we arrive so that we do not have to drag ourselves out in order to provide Bee with the essentials, especially since doing so would also involve quickly finding our way around on public transport after likely not having slept in at least twenty-four hours.
While I know all of these steps are incredibly practical and wise I cannot help but feel ridiculously bourgeois. I half expect my younger self to appear through a time-rift, take a look at me in my Doc Martens, shake his head once very sadly, and kick me in the shins. I might deserve it, but then again I just don’t care. I want to be able to give Bee some Bourbon Cremes for tea and then be able to wash the dishes afterward.
But then again I did thank the Dead Kennedys in the acknowledgements of my book, so I am pretty sure that evens things out.