On being a very lone dad in a “new” country in the Covid era

I can’t be the only person who stopped writing during Covid-19. I have no USP now.

In Vietnam, getting a spot in a national newspaper was as easy as sending a pitch email. Here — who’d want to know? What would I write about? My struggles to adjust? We’re all struggling.

The new job is great, with lovely people. I laugh there. I realise I hadn’t laughed like that in a long time. Zero complaints. It’s awesome.

Working flexibly, five minutes from home, while being allowed to schedule my days around school runs and childcare requirements — is mind-bogglingly decent. I wonder how anyone who didn’t have access to such fairness ever managed.

In Vietnam, the school bus was at seven in the morning. It returned around six.

Now, not long after lunch, I’m thinking of wrapping things up to get to school on time. The good news is, I’ve found a wonderful after-school club that does that for me two days a week.

It costs me a very reasonable tenner a time — but, at eighty quid a month it mounts up.

I’ve no complaints at all about my pay but I’ve gone from living in a very cheap country where I got paid a premium for being a foreigner — to living in very expensive Britain on North East of England rates.

While setting up our new home (we arrived back with just a bag each) — I bought everything I needed while blowing savings and my previous job’s pay-off. I was pretty thrifty — a kind friend gave me back some of the furniture I’d given him 20 years earlier. I bought two second-hand Ikea armchairs for twenty quid the pair.

A month into the new job, it was time to start living on a budget. Just under half of what I earn now goes on rent. I’d already paid council tax and motoring expenses in advance (so I’m cheating here a bit) but I made it through the rest of the month with two hundred quid to put away.

Suddenly I’m watching every penny. I bought a round of hot drinks and cake (because it was with my parents and they already do so much and pay for so much) and it was twenty-five quid. TWENTY-FIVE QUID!

This month, wanting to clear the decks before Christmas, I paid my power bill a little early. Just 20 days since I had last reckoned up — it was eighty pounds. I have the heating on for two hours a day. When I work from home, I type from under a blanket

Covid means we’re all going out less but I can’t fathom the pub now. One single round of drinks would clean me out. Who can pay five quid for a beer?I’ve stopped going out for coffee.

And here’s the other issue. If I *was* going out, presumably, I could pay a trusted teenager a tenner to look after the little one. You can’t do that if you just need the occasional mental space.

My mum and dad have been absolutely awesome. Just wonderful, but are stretched way more thinly than they should be in their advancing years.

Our work Christmas do was canceled due to tightening Covid restrictions but a small group of us are going out. A pizza and a few beers will be a budget-wrecker but I’m looking forward to it.

I am the luckiest lad. I lost my job and literally found a new one within days. One that was local and flexible enough to make all of this work. I’ve no debt. There are just two of us to keep clothed and fed. I’m shopping at Aldi not Waitrose but we’re not going without.

But, likewise, I don’t understand how anyone in even tighter circumstances is managing and there are many.

The hard part is accepting what there won’t be. I won’t meet a new partner. How could that ever work? I can’t imagine a holiday.

Any happy ending comes with the acceptance of the situation and enjoying the little things. This is a very tiny life now.

And, already, that Vietnam existence seems like an impossibly glamorous dream.