A much better memory

Thank you for the send off, you lovely Homeschool Moms.

Between worlds

I must try and stay calm; manage my exit from Hong Kong with three kids, yet remain a role model of a parent. I must show the children, by my words and actions, this is how a woman experiences challenges and problems, yet remains in a state of purpose, dignity, and poise.

Obviously, this is not going to be possible.

For a start, I am packing up our habits and routines in this house, alone. Or, more precisely, with the sort of help you might imagine from three children who have almost no grip on the cruel practicalities and brutal realities of packing up your belongings, throwing out the refuse, and leaving a place where you've lived.

Shark has been in a state of denial for some time. She has taken two weeks to turn out one plastic box and throw away a copy of First News she brought from England last August. (Not without taking a cutting first.)

She seems to imagine her days here will continue just the same, somehow after we're gone.

Maybe I have tried to introduce these profound changes to her. Maybe last week the discussion arose about possibilities of her leaving. Maybe she suggested she didn't want to go, unless she acquires an aquarium in England.

(Did I agree to that? DID I AGREE TO THAT? Which stupid, weak parent, in a moment of madness, AGREED TO AN AQUARIUM? Idiot.)

Squirrel says it bluntly. She does not want to leave the house. Particularly the roof, which is her play space, and where she makes papier mache landforms. But she is more pragmatic. She says she's definitely coming back to Hong Kong to work.

Work at what, I am not sure. Mucking about and eating ice cream, probably, the way I see her options panning out. Maybe I can locate for her a member of the idle rich; one with zero demands and a lot of patience?

If you are looking to take on Squirrel as a future high-maintenance daughter-in-law with a compulsive rock-collecting habit and a line in fairy sparkle, then I can certainly recommend her.

Tiger, the insane, beautiful, deadly, emotional roller-bundle that is Tiger, cannot arrive home to England fast enough. That's what she says, anyhow. She hasn't started packing yet, I note, nor sifting through her treasured stockpiles of books, fabrics, and drawings of horses. Every time I mention starting the sifting process she howls, claims she cannot possibly do that with only seconds in her life, then smashes up her bedroom.

I think there are people, places, and experiences here in Hong Kong that Tiger will miss. She denies it. Except for whispering, as if in confession, that she will miss Diana, the ebullient daughter of a homeschooling mom who I will miss, too. At least I admit it. Tiger's denials will be louder, longer, howlier, with each passing day and turning clock.

But I have learned a few things. I must try and pull off the trick of packing her treasures with her agreement while she doesn't notice yet is fully aware.

Me, I'm just carrying on, packing stuff, sorting out piles of paper and cardboard, most of which the children have glued together to make miniature rooms and houses, and having the odd squeal, in an undignified parenty sort of way.

I'm thinking over how the last fortnight here I expected to spend buzzing about Hong Kong, seeing and doing everything that I failed to do in the last two years. There are so many places to visit that I never went; so many sights I never saw; so many moments I never lived. Can I fit them now into days, or hours?

Not now. Time is moving too fast to fit in everything. I am already waving the losses gone; pottering about in old clothes, turning out cupboards, throwing things away, listening to talk about all the fish that can be put into tanks, all the rocks we can carry in our socks or on the wings of homing fairies, and how all the delights of Hong Kong can never match the feel of cold soil in England.

Let's do that, one more time

We're close to the day we leave Hong Kong, and head back to England. I hear you had the scorcher, the one that comes round every year to mark out the end of winter and the promise of coming summer, the one that will be disappointingly washed by rain.

But here I feel the pressure of time. The clock ticks round and round; everything must be done, all at once, and sometimes twice in one day. Like today. We stumble from one Indian restaurant in the backstreets of Wan Chai to the next Indian restaurant in the backstreets of Mong Kok. To mark the separation of the two, we visit our favourite parlor to lick our favourite ice creams, then tour the markets where last time we said, Next time, we'll buy that, and bargain him down to twenty.

Over the first round of saag paneer we join Ditta and the Pitcher to say, See you later and let's tour the rocks sometime again. Over the second round of saag paneer we join Dig and the Aristocrat; they talk about summer cruises circling Asia while the little grits contemplate dinner with a strong sense of deja vu.

It all makes for a late, late night, and a happy repeating of time with indulgence of green, perfect frozen wildberries, and junk shopping in now familiar places, with all the familiar faces.

I wouldn't normally reveal the contents of a lady's luggage

But when Squirrel has been put in charge of her homeward bound packing, I always hope to be stopped at the airport and asked, 'What's in the bag, madam?' And I can truthfully answer, 'Nothing. Except a platypus, a camel, a cat, a rabbit. And now I regret removing the headless koala.'

Preparation for personalising the suitcases

Four pots of paint, three paintbrushes, two hours of silence. Three suitcases rattling round on the airport conveyor belt will look like works of art.

Free bra

The best thing about having the kids taken off me for a day by The Hat* is that I rummage through a cupboard, find the voucher for 25 quid John Lewis bunged me last year (and I thought I'd thrown away), then I drive carelessly into town, try on boring bras and come home having paid the balance in pennies. Cheers, John Lewis!

* Her parting words, as she loads my kids into her bashed up Vauxhall, are a narrative of how she rammed the car into a tree. She says she wasn't even sitting in it.

House, packing

We've packed. Mostly. We said no to the wooden horse. Yes to the pony trash books. They balance out the Shakespeare for kids. The platypus has gone in, as has Arseface with her chic Asia wardrobe, plus a sewing box to stitch her head back together.

This is odd. It's worrying. It feels final. We're taking so much ordinary everyday junk. Like we're not coming back, not for a long, long time.

Usually we have a rule. One cabin bag each. That's it. No check in bags. We've travelled to Australia like that twice over for a month each time. Three sets of clothes, books, the toy you can't live without, spare shoes, knickers, toothbrush. That's it. Anything else, go without or buy en route. We shrug off the suspicious glance when we get to check-in. What we haven't got we can't lose.

This time, there's too much to take, too much to carry, too much to lose.

Radio Grit

Right now my head is a mash.

Listening to the voices in it is like listening to a clapped out FM radio. I'm trying to tune in but I only have a wonky knob.

You PRs working for various baby food mixes and back to school product assortments should strike me off your lists. You're wasting your time. I am hardly likely to volunteer myself to be manipulated by you, and neither do I construct my blog identity around your product promotion. Arse. Hark! There are moments of lucidity! That makes the effort worthwhile. Sometimes I can hear a direct channel of uncluttered thought shine out. Unfortunately it is strangled by whistling garbage. I mustn't forget to ring up about the hedge.

Because that's typical. I say one thing to myself and another idea which has no relevance takes over. Then the guitar starts playing and the orchestra comes in. I have Teach Yourself Italian on the ipod and I can't get it off. I wonder if the missing Michel Thomas French disc 2 is in the car.

Quite frankly, it's a mess inside this gonetothemashgrittyhead. But maybe I should just say Hi Rachel! I haven't forgotten and the post office is on my to do list. Which reminds me, I should take Paul's address. I feel guilty about the Christmas card. I wonder if the kids know about not putting knitting needles into their cabin luggage.

And I hope that security guard checks the black suitcase. I want to see his face when the leopard springs out.