We’re hunting housing. The big drama, of course, is whether we will get visas so we can even enter England, and whether we’ll get them in time, but since we had to send Sydney’s diploma away to be translated (yes, we are cursing Yale’s decision to confer degrees in Latin right now, and no, though Sydney knows Latin he cannot translated it because he’s not “certified”) that is currently at a halt. So late night, nap time, and every moment Katherine doesn’t scream for our attention has been spent looking online and calling about Oxford flats and houses. We run into three walls:
1) most places hate children (no one says this in the listing, so you have to call to be rejected by a real person)
2) most places are taken before we even call, though there’s nothing on the listing to indicate that (so much for up-to-date web access)
3) most places are reluctant (if not out-and-out refusing our pleas) to rent a place to someone without the person visiting the place in person.
Plus the usual ones like a far from expansive budget and some hope for personal safety. With those hurdles we’ve knocked out several dozen listings and alternate between elation and despair several times a day.
I don’t think this is what I had in mind by looking forward to an “exciting” globe-trotting period in my life . . .