As well as posting my adventures as long haul cabin crew in the form of Suzi,  ( Love, Suzi x) I’m going to update you with my recent adventures. This is an excerpt of a book I’m writing called From London to Lewes about how my family and I changed our lives.

This is our story:-

After a lifetime of London living, an urban family, used to the conveniences of the city try adapting to life in the country. Where on earth do we think of moving to and how insane are we to even consider it?

Down to basics…

          I’ve found learning all about our new house a bit like being in a new relationship – a knot in my stomach at the thrill of the unknown, mixed with slight apprehension that it won’t work out. For the first few weeks we all felt like we were on holiday, ‘but,’ as my daughter put it, ‘without the folder that tells you all about the house and what’s in the local area.’

Holidaying in Cornwall

          We got used to eating with just a few teaspoons and forks because we couldn’t find the rest of the cutlery that was still hidden somewhere at the bottom of a box and that every time I turned the grill on, the electrics would have a tantrum and trip the switch on the whole house. ‘It’s an adventure and exciting things always happen on adventures,’ my children reassured me. I tried to keep calm and pretend that it didn’t matter; telling myself that in every new relationship there’s bound to be a few hiccups to start with.

On the Isle of Wight

           Before we moved, life had been on automatic. I knew that on Sunday night I’d better take the dustbin out, because otherwise it wouldn’t be the dawn chorus drifting into my dreams but, ‘caution, vehicle reversing’ as the refuse truck rumbled along the road. I have been known to scramble into the road in my PJ’s, cursing, as I watched the back of the truck going off around the corner. So rather than bother my new neighbours before I’d had a chance to meet them properly, I surreptitiously started to watch the movements of the next door dustbin.

Rabbit alert!

The days seemed to dawdle along; we learnt that wild rabbits liked our garden best as it had the untidiest, but tastiest vegetable patch and walking the dog was a good excuse to explore the area as I tried not to worry about the endless packing cases that always seemed to multiply whenever I looked at them. Then, still in our sunny mood, we had some townie friends to stay for the weekend. I know it was a lowdown attempt to seduce them to the wonders of country living but I hurried off to our local, farm shop and stocked up on steak, sausages, bacon and free range eggs. Fortunately for them, after a hearty weekend of feasting, the catastrophe did not occur until we were rushing about with the Monday routine. The drains had blocked. Not a savoury subject I know and I assure you I won’t go into too much detail.

Who could have thought they would be so much trouble?

           Insanely my first thought was to try and flush the toilet. Silly move – as soon as I’d pressed the handle I took a step backwards and thought of rushing for my wellies and mop as the murky water rose ever higher in the pan. Anxiously, on tip toes, I braced myself for the aftermath, when without so much as a whimper, something gave way and the level sank at a snail’s pace to somewhere resembling imminent disaster over.

          Alarm bells rang in my head as I tried to reason the quickest and driest way to rectify this conundrum. We’ve only recently moved to the area. Not knowing our neighbours I didn’t think the quirky take on introducing myself and asking for help with the drains would particularly catch on; even if carrying a sugar bowl. The local yellow pages seem to have died a death with the advent of the internet. But after searching through a few websites I was not reassured by the ‘no call out fee’ offered by some, just seeing the pounds signs spinning before my eyes. I decided that the DIY option on how to locate and clear a blockage was a good place to start. 

          When I say I – you know I don’t mean me, exactly. Whilst I stayed at a safe distance looking out of the upstairs window, my newly appointed drainage expert, aka OH, Nick, attractively dressed in protective boots, gloves and ripped old clothes, although without the peg I offered for his nose, removed the manhole covers. After poking makeshift rods along the brown piping in an attempt to restore the flow, he finally managed to hose the last of the offending articles along their way and out of our lives. Whilst I, from my vantage point, rigorously defended the drains against the verbal abuse they were receiving.

Be gone blockages – off into the sunset!

          It’s not all bad; at least now we have a map of the seven manhole covers that hopscotch across the garden, joining up with one another on the other side of the house, then collecting the neighbour’s deposits and continuing off into the sunset. And to be fair to our friends, they may have just been the straw that broke the camel’s back, with so many bends in shallow drains – it’s surprising it hadn’t happened earlier. But it seemed this was part of the adventure that even the children failed to find exciting.

Teresa x

LOVE, SUZI x – letters from a long haul stewardess. My latest book is now available from Amazon as a paperback or ebook.