I don't like England. I want to go back and stay in our old house. In our old house, I can go to the toilet myself. In England, I need someone to wash me. In Malaysia, I can wash by myself. I also want to eat chicken and rice every day because I don't like fish and chips. And I don't like England."
These were the laments of a four-year old - also known as my third child, and middle son. I don't know whether it was his age or the fact that he was fast becoming the middle child with my fifth pregnancy in tow, but it was unsettling for him to move halfway across the world with his three siblings.
We had only just found our little apartment above a post office, one week into the move, in a county North of London.
This apartment was certainly larger than the houses we had been looking at around Nottingham. We knew - and we were prepared - to be accepting of the tiny houses here in Britain, but we did not foresee living in quarters without a yard, much to the disappointment of the kids.
I had promised them rabbits if we had a garden but the fantasy of furry friends was disappearing quickly.
With their dad going back to school at the university nearby, the children were about to learn and live a new lifestyle - and much of it revolved around a student scholarship. Between their dad working towards a part-time job and me working at home, they were settling down into a new life, one with many a grey morning sky.
Most of them were excited - including No 3 - because he wanted to ride the "one-up-one-down" bus. But things began to unravel once we got here. He became a picky eater, and he nit-picked at everything he did not like about Britain, including living in an apartment with dry bathrooms.