Failure to emigrate

I like this village, I do, but sometimes I wonder about the inhabitants. People keep stopping and gazing at me in dumb amazement: 'Still here? I thought you were leaving for AMERICA?' Yes. Yes, well, if you'd walked past a newstand or turned on a TV or a radio over the last five days, you'd have noticed that there's a volcanic eruption going on and NONE OF US ARE GOING ANYWHERE.

I keep ducking my head in the village supermarket every time I pass someone to whom I've already said a lengthy, teary farewell. I didn't want to leave, but now it's embarrassing to still be here. Also, I have already taken my last nostalgic walk past Southcott Manor and my last stroll up to the canal past the waterlands, and eaten my Last Cornish Pasty, and drunk my Last English Ale, and read my Last Saturday Times, and I am very ready to leave now. I'm aware it could be worse - we could be trapped in a hotel room somewhere, watching our funds drizzle away, or stuck in an airport. But the lease on our house expires at the end of the month, as does our car insurance, our mobile phone contracts - and the sodding volcano keeps on exploding.

My husband keeps coming up with bright ideas. 'We could drive to Lisbon, and -'

Last time we drove back from London to Wiltshire, we got stuck in a traffic jam, and both children began writhing and screaming in concert. Jasper, not usually the most articulate of toddlers, started howling clearly 'No... car... me.... NO... CAR... ME' while Barnaby just howled. They kept it up past Reading, all the way home. I pointed out that possibly, just possibly, driving through France, Spain and Portugal was not going to work - not unless he wanted to listen to the tortuous repetition of 'NO... CAR... ME' all through most of Western Europe.

'What about a cruise ship, then..? I could send you and the boys on ahead -'

He is full of bright ideas.