The truth is though, that since the age of eighteen, I’ve never lived in one place for very long. I went to university in Cardiff, then spent a year working and travelling, before doing my journalism training for a year in Falmouth in Cornwall and then heading over to Brighton and then up to Hull for respective jobs. I arrived in Reading a year later, before moving to the countryside a couple of years after that.

Because of this nomadic type of lifestyle, I now have friends scattered all over the UK. Some of those friends I rarely speak to any more, as life and distance gets in the way and people move on to new things. But some of those friends I’m as close to as ever, even if I don’t see or speak to them every week.

This last weekend my friend Caroline came to stay with her son. We used to live next door to them in our old village, with the kids regularly in and out of each others’ houses. They’d bicker like brother and sister but stick up for each other and play together too. Within 5 minutes of Caroline’s arrival, it was plain to see the relationship between Frog and her “brother” was exactly as it always had been. 

We spent the day at the beach and by the harbour, eating fish and chips and ice cream. It was a pretty perfect day and just what I needed after an exhausting and emotional couple of weeks.

The weekend before, I rang my oldest friend to tell her my grandmother had died. We’ve been friends that long that she shares memories of Nana too and knows how good her Lancashire Lemon Fingers were. “Shall I put off my visit?” my friend asked me. But I wanted her to come, to distract us and to catch up on all the news since I last saw her in Bath.

There’s now twenty years of friendship between us, which seems impossible because if I close my eyes we are twelve years old again, making up dance routines to R Kelly and recording pretend radio shows. Frog has got in on the action, determined that “Ellen is my best friend now Mummy, not yours!”.

Since starting this blog I’ve made some new friends who’ve made the switch from “Internet mates” to ones of the “real life variety”. Jane of Northern Mum fame has been to visit with her brood too, on her way back from Cornwall. Frog and BB had a sleepover in the same bed, and it made me smile (through gritted teeth, admittedly) to hear Frog loudly whispering, “Don’t go to sleep yet! Don’t be boring!” as BB snored her way through Frog’s rambling.

We’ve only been in this house a couple of months but already it’s been lit up with laughter and music from friends visiting and sharing meals with us. Each time someone new arrives Frog proudly shows them her new bedroom, before going on to do the tour of the rest of the house.

It turns out I was wrong to worry about losing touch with old friends. Now we have the making new friends bit to look forward to too.

How do you manage to keep in touch with all your old friends? Have any of you moved REALLY far away and struggled to keep up the contact with your old friends? 

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We have now spent almost two weeks offline. In fact we are still, officially, offline. I am jumping on my family’s internet juice to write this blog post, but as soon as we return home it’ll be back to the solitary island again – for a few more days at least.

Here’s what happened while I was offline…

We moved in here: 

(I cried when we collected the keys to our very own home. I was expecting a fanfare of trumpets when we walked into the estate agents. Holding those keys in my hand was the final point in a long old journey of saving, working incredibly hard and being Sensible with a capital S.)

We unpacked: 

This is our family / dining room. It has a log burner, high ceilings, an original sash window and an adjoining window through to the kitchen. I think it might be my favourite room in the house.

We took delivery of a million logs: 

It took my three year old and I four hours to lug the huge pile of logs from the roadside through the house, stacking by the fire. We didn’t have time to move them to the log store in the garden as we had an oven being delivered that day. Never have logs proved so stressful. It was like Crystal Maze, but less exciting.

We chose a Christmas tree: 

Despite the pouring rain and gale force winds, the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine decided wellies and coats were for wimps. “I don’t need a coat, I’m from Rochdale, we don’t wear coats up there.”

We put the tree up, finally: 

Better late than never, and all that.

We explored our new village: 

And found the pub: 

This Christmas Eve pub lunch was followed by some carolling round the village Christmas tree. The NLM moaned all the way there (“It’s not my thing. I don’t do singing” etc etc) but threw himself into the songs with gusto. Obviously.

We opened presents: 

Our first Christmas in our very own home. I won’t be forgetting it any time soon. Turns out life offline isn’t so bad after all.

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(A cute picture of my three year old, just because.)

The out of office is on. The moving boxes are packed. The new, much worked-for house is within sniffing distance. 

On Monday we will move into our very own place in time for Christmas. As with all moves, it means lots of telephone calls and sorting and unpacking and – potentially – a teensy bit of stress. So I’m saying goodbye to the blog at least until after Christmas, when I will return to the land of the internet (providing we are connected by then).

In the meantime have a wonderful Christmas and a very merry New Year. You won’t even see me on Instagram because, incredibly, the village we’re moving to doesn’t even have 3G coverage.

I’m quite looking forward to the enforced blackout actually. I know – I am a weirdo.

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Things don’t always make sense. You sort of understand, but there are murky bits that don’t fit together. You think you know everything and you want to do it all by yourself, but you can’t. Not yet.

Frog is going through what I believe parenting experts call a “challenging phase”. Relocating to an entirely new area (even if it is one she loves), coupled with her already strong sense of independence and “switched on” attitude, is proving a little tricky. 

It would be easy to write this blog and articles elsewhere, offering a rosy view of life. I could stick to talking about the wonderful family days out, funny things my child says and nice products I want to buy. But that wouldn’t paint a true picture of our life.

As my little diva grows, I’m aware of the need to strike a sense of balance between protecting my three year old’s privacy and not just showing the good stuff.

So. We have moved to a beautiful part of the world. We wake in the morning to views of fields and sunlit valleys. It’s all very picturesque and peaceful. There are a million and one places to explore and days out to be had. Yet, the last couple of days have been difficult.

Of course they have; moving is never easy. Even though we have moved somewhere that my child loves, her behaviour is proof that she is still getting used to the idea that this is her home. Tantrums are part and parcel of being three, I suspect. But, as vocal as Frog is, tantrums every ten minutes are extreme even for her.

I have never heard the word, “NO!” shouted so frequently and so loudly as I have the past few days. A slight hint of things not going her way results in screams of frustration, a red face, tears and sometimes lashing out at the nearest toy or – a couple of times – me.

It’s a physically exhausting business at the best of times, let alone when you’re living amongst boxes and still striving to meet work deadlines. All my instincts tell me this is a phase, an inevitable result of turning my three year old’s life upside down, something we will ride out together. But, in the heat of tantrum battle, that reasoning isn’t always easy to remember.

For the first time ever, we have had to sit down and discuss a proper “approach” to the issue. The (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine and I have never had an “approach” type of attitude to parenting. Indeed, we both flinch at the term “parenting”, preferring to think of the act of being parents as part of life. Basically, we live life, we muddle along through, we don’t read any “manuals” and prefer to act on instinct.

This time, however, we have had to agree that our instinct needs to be channelled into a “plan”. So we have a reward chart, lots of praise at the ready, some lovely things planned for family days, along with the readiness to take toys away for behaviour that just won’t do. Plus, the dreaded naughty step in times of crisis.

I’m all for listening to my child and being patient. I try to see things from her point of view as much as possible. But I also know that my little girl thrives with clear boundaries and consistency. I’m no parenting guru. I don’t always have the answers to how to deal with difficult situations, but I still think that, in this case, my instinct is right.

In fact, this is a strange post to find myself writing, because I rarely write about “approaches” and techniques etc. To be honest, I find it all a bit boring and introspective.

Easy to dismiss it all though, when you don’t need it. Today, I need all the approaches and techniques that I can get.

What would you do?

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The past two days seem to have gripped me in a fever of procrastination. As I attempt to do anything but pack yet more boxes, I’ve become a master in the art of Delaying Tactics.

As a fully fledged expert, I can now share my top tips with you, as I strive to get at least some benefits from my less than useful state of mind.

Tip Number 1: Paint some chairs…

Tip Number 2: Paint some nails…

Tip Number 3: Blog about it…

Pending my work deadlines, I’ve now run out of procrastination inspiration. My shabby nails are painted, my shabby chairs are painted – I’ve even waved a duster in the direction of the bathroom.

There is nothing more I can do to put off packing the rest of the contents of my house before the removal men come on Saturday and move us 200 miles west to Devon.

Wish me luck, I’m going in.

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Our last weekend has been spent eating ice cream in the boiling heat, berating the lack of a paddling pool (and using an oven cleaning tray instead), packing, packing and more packing, stacking, catching glimpses of the historic Andy Murray Wimbledon victory as we lugged boxes past the living room, shouting the score to whoever was at the top of the ladder, attempting to stop an inquisitive three year old from unpacking everything…

And then giving up the lot and heading to the pub for tea.

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