Winding dowwwwnnnn.

Good morning blogland!

Well i finally feel, after two months of a strange square peg, round hole sensation, that i have settled in to my new abode. The surrounding hills seem familiar, I have worked out our hot water system, I can even tell you which village child belongs to which set of parents.....
I call them village children because for two months, I have seen them move about the village en masse. There are 24 of them in total. They all look vaguely similar to each other in an un-brushed-hair and sneaker wearing kind of a way and further more, they are always on their own, without a parent or guardian in sight.
When I've questioned Welsh about their origin, he usually gives me some convoluted answer such as "Well you know Emma Golly Gosh that is always in the pub? Well she was married to Gog for a spell and they had the blond one then he had an affair with Mr Marples daughter and they had the other blond one. Then She married Bill, the Scottish guy and had the twins. One of the twins has the same name as Mr Marples youngest too!" And who is Mr Marple? "You know, the guy that lives in The Old Smithy." Who or what is a Smithy one may ask.
It's a confusing place where sibling groups span two generations and everyone seems to have been married at least 13 times before they are 21. I heard a four year old explaining her family to my neighbour in the pub the other day. It is disturbing to hear such a small child say "they got divorced because it just didn't work out. But mummy met her new boyfriend at the karate club and he has muscles out to here!!" whilst she gestures 30cms from her spindly little forearms "I really like your dog" she continued on as she patted a humongous Afgan Hound, the wrong way up its back.

They travel in gangs on their bikes, usually with three or four dogs trailing them. They shout out "I heard you're having a girl! congratulations!" from across the street, even though at that time, we had told noone that information. They use words that should be beyond their vocabulary and state things with such authority, I think they must be true. They've shown me their secret club house beside the river and infiltrated my facebook page, despite my privacy settings being set to maximum. And when I told Welsh that one of the small boys looked at me in a way that made me uncomfortable, he glanced back to him, only to see him wink and give Welsh the thumbs up. (I'm actually a bit scared of that kid.)

These kids seem wild, yet have incredible manners. They seem to understand boundaries without having to be told. They stay awake until midnight and drink shandies like little old ladies. There is no such thing as school holiday program or nannys or even parental supervision really. Sometimes there will be 6 of them playing in my backyard for hours on end until Welsh gets home from work and shoos them on to the next house. Noone is allergic to anything, and if i give them all dinner, they eat everything on their plate then ask what i put in the cheese sauce. There's no room for tantrums in this village, no space for "but daddy, I want an Oompa Loopa NOW!" There is just jumping in the river and being home in time for tea and asking the alarmed look Australian women when her baby is due so they'll have a new friend.

There is something in this way of being bought up. I am not sure what it is yet, but there is something.