Moving to Delhi

Mark Tulley and Sam Miller both writers and so good at writing about living in Delhi.
William Dalrymple a great writer and historian.
[It made me laugh when my son stated that he was going on a tour of a Mughal Monument and it was his school friend's Dad conducting the tour. What did he know about such things? The clue was in the surname, Dalrymple. OK son you have the privilege of a great historian taking you on the tour.]
So what am I doing blogging as a person living in Delhi. I am an ordinary person. Married, three teenagers and that is it. So that is my blog - Mrs Ordinary.
I'm not a writer or a traveller but a virgin as an ex pat, never before have I followed husband , never been trailing wife, never travelled much, happy with a career and life living in Surrey. I never thought I'd live in Surrey, but that's another story
What made me move? A now or never moment.
We had choices and the one I made was to move to Delhi. Husband has always worked in different countries for periods of time, usually a few weeks but occasionally a few months. This time was different as a longer term contract for two years was on the table.
We could live seperately or move with him.
A difficult decision.
Arguments for:- we stay as a family, my children's experiences are considerably broadened as are mine, I don't have to commute and I needed to change job anyway so it put off the moment. Quite selfish reasons really.
Against:- most importantly leaving friends and family and my happily settled life, losing my pension, leaving my darling daughter behind for 6 months to finish GCSE's
The fors had it.
Now we are all here. Things I hadn't considered have been difficult mainly the climate in the summer. Sooo hot and now humid. The school for my teenage sons is also problematic. I believed that when you pay it's all good, and have now discovered this is not necessarily true.
My daughter stayed with a true and lovely friend and that was good before the little sweetie joined us here in Delhi.
So a happy story.

India, India

I don't think or say India, India. I hear it as it was shouted by the Indian fans at the test cricket match we went to watch in Manali in December last year. It was a hastily rearranged match after the English cricket team had fled the country, understandably, after the horror of the Mumbai attacks. They came back. This was so appreciated by people in India it rubbed off on the English fans. We were welcomed by all which actually did us a disservice. Waived through inumerable security checks only to be turned back at the last hurdle for not having tickets.
I had tried to purchase them earlier. The reponse to an e mail to The ECB confessed they didn't know and never really knew where to buy tickets as far as matches in India were concerned. As we reached the final hurdle the hand written sign on the door directed us back to a bank in Chandigarh. Walk back a mile or so then find transport. So off we went in an autorickshaw to Sector 41. A few wrong turnings, a few words in Hindi and we got there.
Easily sorted with the sellers apologising that they didn't have tickets left for the posh seats on the first day.
This meant we had to sit with the die hards of the Barmy Army.
Great fun!
My youngest son, at age 13, loved it totally, utterly and completly. He was welcomed as despite his youth I think the kindred spirit was recognised.
It took me back to a time, when I was young and witty banter with a big crowd of your mates was so good. It is an eclectic crowd not restrained by the snobberies and caste, whoops, I meant class systems, of England.
The hotel where the teams were staying was a secret because of security.
There is only one decent hotel within 100 miles so it wasn't too difficult to guess where it was.
We went!!
My teenage boys got all the autographs, thanks to the introduction of my son wearing a Northern football team T shirt.
A good weekend. forgetting the hassle, poverty and stress of living in Delhi.
For once I felt part of it as opposed to being different.
Loved it