It had never really crossed my mind that I would visit America, let alone live there.
America was not part of the plan. The plan was that after several years of living in Singapore, my husband Henry and I would return to live in the UK with our two small boys.
We had never owned a house before but finally with a deposit to hand, decided to target rural North Essex, an area with which we had no prior links. Spotting a magical looking yellow thatched cottage online, we put in an offer and bought it before viewing it. Tenants were installed until we were in a position to return.
By June 2015 we had left our life in the tropical sweat box behind and were living the dream in our quaint little chocolate box house which had ancient beams and a garden spilling out onto open fields.
The dream was short lived. In July 2015 Henry was approached about working in New York with his existing company. He turned the job down immediately – of course we weren’t about to uproot having just relocated from Singapore. I breathed a hearty sigh of relief and went back to the paddling pool with the boys.
But then Henry was approached about the job again. This one was going to be difficult to refuse. It was suggested that perhaps we undertake a recce to help us with the decision making.
And so it was that at the end of August, Henry and I left the boys with my trusty mother for a few days and set forth to have a look at NYC.
I won’t go into too much detail, other than to say that I was something of a wreck on the recce, struggling to compute the enormity of moving country again having only just arrived back in the bosom of beloved Blighty. Poor Henry.