So the first year back home, the year that was supposed to be bliss……it wasn’t……it stunk.
The first kick in the face happened when Mort called about his promised job, the company had merged with another and within this corporate transaction, the job had disappeared, without notification to Mort. Even though he was backed by a degree from one of the most elite Universities in the world, he then played that Catch 22 game whereby potential employers said “resume looks good but you don’t have local experience” …how are you supposed to get local experience if no one will give you a chance?
The second kick in the face came when the removalists decided that they had under-quoted for the job and basically held our goodies for ransom. So rather than getting our stuff within 6 weeks as promised, they were on the slow boat to China via Greenland and Antarctica and arrived 7 months later.
In the meantime, Mort had gotten a labour’s job and we slept on a sofa/futon.
But the third, and this was actually the fabulous kicker….was that I had the first kicks from Little Miss in belly. Now I am not one of those who thinks pregnancy is a beautiful, butterflies singing and rainbows dancing moment. Frankly it is all pretty yuk. What you get at the end is fabulous but the pregnancy and birth part – gross. But the little kicks, pretty cool.
So in this first year leading up to a Leo baby with me growing to a leviathan Jabba the Hutt caricature, Mort climbing onto roofs to lay tiles for cash in hand and us sleeping on a sofa futon, I started to notice vodka stashed behind the icecream that I was devouring at a gluttonous pace.