Welcome to WordPress. TIt was nearly seven years since I had been home!
Seven years. It sounds like a prison sentence when you say it like that, doesn’t it? And in a way, it felt a little like one too—only instead of bars and guards, there was distance, time zones, and a global pandemic keeping me from the place where I grew up. Seven years of video calls, missed birthdays, and “We should really plan a trip soon!” that never quite became reality.
This was largely because of COVID. We were planning on coming back—honestly, we were. We even had a whole itinerary worked out. There was a wedding we were going to attend in Canada on the way to the UK from New Zealand. It was going to be a lovely little multi-continent family adventure. The kind you romanticise in your head, where everything smells like fresh snow and maple syrup, and the kids sleep through every flight.
And then—well, the world shut down.
Borders closed, weddings were postponed or downsized, and suddenly the idea of sitting on a plane for 24 hours with small children became even more nightmarish than it already was. International travel became less “dream trip” and more “logistical impossibility peppered with existential dread.”
It was really weird. But other people had a much worse time. So we counted ourselves lucky, adjusted to the new normal, and stayed put. New Zealand isn’t a bad place to be stuck, after all. But home still called out across the hemispheres, and that call only got louder as the years ticked by.
But now—finally—I’m going home!
My mum would finally get to meet my youngest two kids, who she had only ever seen through the flat, flickering lens of video calls. For years, her grandkids had been pixels and giggles through a screen—real in the sense that she could hear their voices and see their faces, but never quite hold them, never quite be there. That was going to change. She could give them actual hugs. Smell their hair. Hold their tiny hands. All those very human things we took for granted before the world became obsessed with sanitiser.
It wasn’t just about Mum, either. It was about catching up with the rest of the family, the old friends, the familiar faces and places that had existed only in memory for too long. There’s something surreal about returning after so long—it’s like stepping into a photo you took years ago and finding it has aged without you.
And—of course—see Andy.
Andy and I met way back at our University Debate Society. The kind of club you join thinking it’ll help you with public speaking or uni credits, and end up walking away with lifelong friends and a weird ability to argue absolutely anything with a straight face. We clicked right away—something about our shared love of words, the back-and-forth banter, and the late-night chats after a bottle of terrible wine.
Though I’ve been out of the country for years now, Andy and I have stayed in touch. Sporadic messages, the occasional call, memes sent at odd hours, and always that feeling of picking up right where we left off, no matter how long it’s been. That kind of friendship is rare. He’s always had a special place in my heart—one of those people who just gets you.
Since I’ve been gone, a lot has changed. I’ve had some kids. He’s got married, had a few of his own. And—this is the bit I’m still wrapping my head around—he’s written two books of poetry.
Two! Not one, which could be a fluke or a drunken experiment, but two—clearly intentional, laboured-over collections of words. I’ve seen snippets online. I’ve read the reviews. People say they’re good. I’m proud of him. And if I’m honest, a little awed by it. Who actually finishes writing a book, let alone publishes it?
Now, confession time: I’ve meant to buy the books. Honestly, I have. I’ve added them to shopping carts. I’ve hovered over the “Buy Now” button. I’ve read the blurbs and gone “Oh I should really…” and then closed the tab. Life gets in the way. Kids, work, dishes, bedtime stories, and a million other distractions.
Am I a bad friend? Maybe. Probably. But I have a plan.
Here’s what I’ll do: just before I fly out, I’ll order both books online and have them shipped to a friend’s house in the UK. That way, I don’t have to carry them from New Zealand like some weird literary mule, and I’ll have them ready for when I see Andy. We’ll meet at the pub—our old haunt or maybe somewhere new—and I’ll casually pull the books from my bag like, “Oh, would you mind signing these?” Cool, effortless, thoughtful. At least that’s how I imagine it in my head.
It’ll be a nice moment. I’ll finally have his books, he’ll feel appreciated, and I’ll have two signed poetry books written by a genuinely cool friend. Not a bad souvenir, right?
That is the plan!
But first—we have to fly from New Zealand to London. With a two-year-old. And a five-year-old.
What could possibly go wrong?
You might think I’m being dramatic, but if you’ve ever attempted long-haul travel with small children, you know I’m already being too optimistic. There’s nothing quite like the stress cocktail of time zones, in-flight tantrums, and mysterious crumbs. Packing alone is an Olympic sport—snacks, toys, changes of clothes (for them and us), tablets loaded with every episode of Bluey, and noise-cancelling headphones which are, let’s be honest, more for us than the kids.
But despite all the chaos ahead, there’s something magical about the anticipation. We’re going home. We’re closing the gap. We’re turning “someday” into “now.”
The bags are (mostly) packed. The kids are buzzing with the vague excitement of “going on a plane” even though they don’t fully understand how long it’ll take. I’m equal parts anxious and giddy, worried about the flight but already daydreaming about seeing familiar faces, drinking proper tea, and walking the same streets I walked as a teenager—now with my own kids beside me.
Seven years. Too long. But worth the wait.