Most of the last week has been very dull. We’ve been pretty much shut in on the island with productive colds. Productive in the ‘loads of snot’ sense rather than the ‘getting lots of things done’ sense.
In fact I think the only thing I managed to get done was get little man addicted to Peppa Pig (amazing British children’s tv show about a family of pigs who are friends with other families of different animal species. Daddy Pig the blithering idiot being my favourite.) And only 5-10 minutes a day while I was distracting him from his snot sucking before anyone starts quoting horrific AAP, ‘your child will become an insular, troubled nincompoop if you subject them to any screen time ever before the age of two’ statistics at me.
Well that and giving wee man his first haircut which unfortunately made him look like either Adolph Hitler or Lloyd from Dumb and Dumber.
So the dullness ended on Sunday when we did the big move. The big move consisted of having half an hour to throw as much crap as we could into the back of the other half’s pick up truck and my car to make the last ferry of the morning. And remember important things such as the dog and baby. Which we did. Just.
I’d like to say we did it in style but we probably looked pretty pikey. (American word equivalent being something like ‘trashy gypsies’.) Definitely compounded by the huge, cheap, leopard print suitcases I bought to emigrate with. Purely for the amusement factor of the other half having to fly back and forth with them.
In retrospect it wasn’t the best laid plan. The boat hadn’t been cleaned yet, it was frigging freezing (actually, 6 below freezing) and we were meant to be at a party by 2pm. Just to add a little more stress to the affair.
After lugging our copious amounts of stuff on to the boat I’ve since decided a large amount isn’t needed and now needs to be taken back to the island. Oops. I say we, obviously I did nothing bar bitch and moan about how it was all being lugged on and how I’d be doing it much better.
After a few hours the smell of diesel had cleared and it had warmed to a balmy freezing so we settled down for a night in.
Being able to walk out and get a take-away is something I have missed so so much from London. Not all the time, just knowing that you can. The island we live on has two stores, the nearest being 20 minutes drive away and shuts at 5.30. Oh and it’s shut Sundays. Then that’s it. You need anything and you’re looking at a four hour long round trip to the mainland. And the last ferry off is 4.30 so that’s not even possible.
This is especially hard when you’re pregnant and decide you have a craving for something. Tough shit love, crave away.
Although the other half did do an incredibly sweet thing when I was pregnant and craving McDonalds. (I know, I know.) He called in some favours, got a taxi to pick some up on the mainland and got it flown in. I’d like to point out before he starts looking like superman, that I was in a huge rage with him at the time. He’d probably done something horrific like not use a plate to eat toast or look at me funny (I had wicked bad pregnancy rages I’m ashamed to say). Anyway, it’s safe to say it’s the first warm Maccy D’s that’s been eaten on Islesboro. And hopefully the last.
So after a joyous Pad Thai which only bore a passing resemblance to a Pad Thai (Maine’s ethnic cuisines sometimes lacking a tad on the authenticity front), we bedded down for the night.
All was going as swimmingly as it ever does these days having a co-sleeping baby- nurse, slap, snore, nurse, slap, snore, when we got catapulted out of our cosy little aft cabin nest due to the fact that some twat (guess who that could have been, Daddy Pig) had docked us right next to two honking great working tug boats who had to warm up their 500 million horsepower engines for an hour before roaring off to see some ship up the bay. At 1am.
This apparently was exciting and cool. It wasn’t. We shall be moving the boat this evening…….