I waved Sam and Gwen and the baby off as they headed to Heathrow in a black cab with their luggage and all the extra paraphernalia you need to travel with a kid.
I was really happy for them; they are a great couple and now with an adorable toddler I hoped they would all—especially Gwen—get some R&R in the beautiful lakes and woods of northern Minnesota.
I had wondered how working remotely would go. It went really well! I thought I would be distracted by all there was to do in England, but because I had gone down to 80% time and stockpiled my vacation days, it worked out that I only worked about 24 hours per week. There was no reason to do this in 8-hour days. If I worked six days a week, for instance, that was only four hours a day.
In the office, there are phones ringing, the front door buzzer going off, and people stopping by my cube to chat but at Sam and Gwen’s there was none of this, so I could actually concentrate better and draw a line between work and fun time.
I would make eggs with mushrooms and tomatoes for breakfast while listening to Radio 4, then settle down to work.
When I logged on, my email was full of messages from the afternoon and evening of the previous day. I would get a few messages from my colleagues in Ethiopia or Jordan in the first part of the day, but nothing from the USA until 2pm. This also helped me to focus. It was easy to knock out four hours before anyone could send me more work.
I clocked off mid-afternoon and went for a walk or to the Leisure Centre to lift weights or take a yoga class. It was unBritishly hot, with temperatures over 90F (32C) the first week I was there. It was cooler by the river, which was just steps from the house. I love how everything in these old towns in jumbled on top of everything else—ancient buildings, more ancient buildings, gates, lanes, walls, towers.
I crossed a meadow to a back water of the Thames with views of Eton Chapel.
Growing up in St. Paul, we were warned to NEVER swim in the river. The Mississippi River, that is. If I turned around from these views, I face a swimming hole. An old guy was swimming, so I returned the next day with my suit. It was icy cold and took me 15 minutes to wade in; I’m pretty sure those shrieks I heard were mine.
Some families arrived upstream and the kids jumped in and splashed about. If parents thought this was safe enough for their kids, surely it was safe enough for me. I stood in the water up to my neck, cooling off and enjoying the scenery—the chapel to one side and woods and swans floating by on the other, their whiteness reflected on the black water.
This was my daily routine for a week, until it cooled off. I would return home to join Skype calls or polish off more emails before clocking off again, making dinner, and watching EastEnders or some other crap TV while eating and having a glass of wine.
Or, I would try a new place to eat, usually a pub. I ate at the Waterman’s Arms the first Sunday.
Fish and chips, cider, the Times … the Thames, swans, summer. It was bliss. This was living.
Except for my Restless Legs. You would think I would sleep deeply with all the fresh air and exercise and heavy food, but I tossed and kicked and moaned and swore up and down and ran up and down the steps all night, every night, trying to get some relief, some sleep. RLS sounds like a silly condition but it is torment. Other than that, life was grand.
People have asked if I got lonely. I did wish for company sometimes, but my friends Heidi and Julie happened to be around. On weekends and days off I would go to Stonehenge or The Tower or Wimbledon. How lucky am I to write that sentence?