Belle goes postal...

Gentle reader,

This has been a momentous week.

For one thing, I turned 24. For another, I commissioned (how grand I feel saying that!) a special birthday cake, which featured 3 layers of mud-chocolate sponge, several inches of chocolate ganache icing, and a pink sugar-spun exterior which was fit for a princess (ie: me). That it also came with several health risks and a diabetes warning was beside the point. The point is: it was very, very pretty. And very yummy...

Oh yes, what a cake! 

I confess, I can hide it no longer - I am known as Princess Cakeface to my friends. I love cake, in all of its many shapes and forms. A day without cake is a day wasted in my book. Indeed, to show you quite how obsessed I am with it (actually, let's not say obsessed, it makes me sound creepy. I prefer "enthusiastic"), please see the image below for the entire dessert table I arranged in honour of my 24th year on this planet:

Oh yeah, baby. That's a whole lot of cake.

But - going back to my original point - my first birthday in a whole new hemisphere was underway. The party (by which I mean cakefest) was swinging, and my new friends and newly-discovered family (minus any Mad Mexicans etc.) had gathered to celebrate my 24th year / general presence in their lives / ability to create the world's best cake buffet. Looking around, and seeing these people who, just a few months ago, I didn't even know, made me feel very lucky (and not just because at least 3 of them are gluten intolerant, leaving yet more cake for me...)

It was strange, this celebration, on a whole new part of the planet (new to me, anyway). Coming to live in a different country is a fraught experience - both good and bad - and this birthday definitely embodied that emotional split. I'm lucky enough to have met some very lovely people here in Sydney, and I cannot express how much I appreciate them, and how much they mean to me. But, at the same time, there are some wonderful people who I love dearly 12,000 miles away. And, obviously, they weren't there.  For the first time ever, they weren't there. And that was hard. Waking up to parcels - but no hugs, no physical presence from my parents, no phonecalls or texts from my friends back home (who, being in a different hemisphere and timezone, were not yet on Belle's Birthday) - I couldn't help bawling a little bit / a lot. I may be 24 now, and technically a big girl, but - in contrast to the popular song - I believe that big girls do cry. And they definitely cry when they're far from home.

But - if there's one thing I am, it's practical. And I was aware that for as long as I cried, I wouldn't be able to open my presents (my multi-tasking abilities fail when I cry. I am a focused cryer, with all of my energy going into each teardrop. It's quite something to watch). So, I dusted myself off, and then gentle reader, came the next event of the Birthday Bonanza. The receiving of the presents - a sacred moment in every birthday, and especially so when the parcels arrive with Royal Mail stamps, and the knowledge that hidden inside are treats from home! Blighty, oh Blighty. Oh, my friends! Oh! The excitement was almost too much for me, let me tell you. But I kept calm (other than bouncing, ever so slightly, and giggling giddily to myself. Enjoy that mental image....)

It was all so exciting. So special.And then, without warning, my happy bubble got popped. Brutally.

Unwrapping a parcel from my parents, I realised that the box had been opened before. And that the weight I received it at was less than half of that showing on the postage label. Now, I've watched programmes about this kind of thing before, but never, ever had I expected it to happen to me.

Let me explain: somewhere between Upminster Post Office, UK, and Vaucluse, Australia, someone had helped themselves to my presents. Yes, not just one - but nearly all of them. In fact, out of the 2 kilos of gifts sent to me, only 0.5 kilos arrived. Just one present got through. Now don't misunderstand me - this was not customs stopping my parents sending me through something contraband. They were not smuggling food / wooden items / illegal materials. They were sending me good, old-fashioned, fully-legally acceptable birthday presents. And whether it was at a post office, sorting office, or wherever - some bastard, somewhere, stuck their hands in and stole them. The only thing that got through was a sentimental token, and my birthday card. I suppose, in some ways, I should be grateful that I received those at all.

Dear reader, I'm aware that I can be dramatic sometimes. I may even exaggerate now and again. But let me tell you, in absolute seriousness, that the devastation I felt on encountering the theft was huge. The violation of knowing that someone had messed around with my parcel. Had picked what they wanted to out of it. Had acted with utter self-interest and gross contempt for anyone but themself - it was horrible. Really, really horrible.

Now, I'm fortunate. I have parents who are willing and able to re-buy the entire content of the package, and send them (registered, this time) over to me again.  It's not something I've asked them to do, but they want to. And whilst it's very kind of them, I hate that they have to. I hate that somewhere out there, are people who work within a system which we place our trust in - and who abuse that. Whether you move countries or not, everyone needs to have faith that what they post will get delivered unmolested (stirring language, but it's true). But when you emigrate, your reliance on the post suddenly changes - the internet and other modern forms of communication is a lifeline, but so is good old-fashioned snail mail. How else can you be expected to get presents or cards home? How else can you show the ones you care about that you are thinking of them, and do genuinely remember their birthday / anniversary / miscellaneous other event?

Whether this is an unfair accusation or not, my belief is that my parcel was tampered with in the UK. Post is most commonly stolen at the sender's point of origin, and not the recipient's destination. But anyhow. My suspicions are as they are. Wherever it happened, the point is still that it happened.

So what can I conclude?

Firstly, that there are some total scumbags out there. And I hope that karmically they are retributed. Beyond that, I'm trying to move on from the incident as much as possible, although it really has upset me, and given me a (not entirely irrational) intense dislike for postmen.

Secondly, that having my birthday celebrated in two hemispheres (in as much as my friends in the northern hemisphere celebrated by sending me presents... which seems to me a pretty good way of celebrating...) was very special. Whilst it was hard being away from loved ones back home, it was also very nice to see the new friends and social group I've made during my short time in Sydney so far.

And finally - that maybe, just maybe, there is such a thing as eating too much cake (5 slices, anyone..?). But hell - if I had my time over again, I'd eat those 5 portions all over again, without so much as a hesitation. Cakefest 5000.

Boys and girls, I am now 24. It's a new age, in a new country, with new experiences. And other than my newfound hatred of postmen, I know that whatever changes or develops for me over the next 12 months, I will have my friends, and I will have my family. And I will have them in both hemispheres. And that means a lot.

On that note, I bid you goodnight from Sydney. I'll write again soon.

With love

Princess Cakeface x

A run-in with the fuzz...

Gentle reader,

I am a good girl. I always have been. Right through school I never had so much as a detention. My teenage rebellion was getting my ears pierced (single hole, with my parents' permission, as a reward for getting good GCSE results. But still). During my university years I moved out of home for 6 months, then promptly moved back when my housemates 1) Didn't stick to my cleaning regimens 2) Were grotty and 3) Used my good olive oil to fry chips. (Yes, I was a student who had good olive oil. Some standards have to be maintained).

Please, don't think any the worse of me. Just understand that we're all different, and that for me the few things in this life that are non-negotiable are a Harpic-Bloo toilet, good food, and a clean track-record. (If you query what relevance the first two have to the third, it's simply that they're all different aspects of my personality. Which is occasionally on the princess side. But as I said, don't judge me. We all have our crosses to bear. My princess-ship is my own...)

So - yes - the point is, that I am a law-fearing, law-abiding citizen, an all round good egg, and game as a bagel at all times (what that has to do with it is anybody's guess. But hey).

You can imagine my fear, my horror - nay, my terror, then, when recently I was pulled over by the police. The Fuzz. The Pigs (as I believe they are disparagingly termed in the UK. This is not a term I approve of, and include it only so that my readers can hear - if not experience - the cultural attitude the Brits have towards those men in uniform).

It had been one of those nights. The office Christmas party had ended at 11pm (or at least, for me it had ended then. Deciding to stay on after that time would have been foolish at best. Over-excited, over-worked, over-alcoholed colleagues in Tarzan dress up - it was Safari themed - is always going to be a situation with a definite time-limit)... My one alcohol drink had been finished by 8pm. (Yes, it's true, I'm not a big drinker. Although don't equate that with being no fun. The truth is, that when I dance sober it looks like I'm drunk anyway. I have a fairly enthusiastic personality - combine that with alcohol, and the results could be unfortunate). The first inappropriate come-on began at approximately 8:05pm (thankfully, following several years' experience of Christmas parties, I am now well-practiced at dealing with the old, "It's getting hot in here, shall we find a quiet spot outside?" routine). And following 3 hours of dancing, eating as many canapes as I could lay my mitts on, and rebuffing my many admirers (caution: I may be exaggerating the number of admirers I attracted. This is arbitrary, however. Focus on the big picture), I decided it was time to head for home.

So: to summarise.

I was driving home, sober, dressed in leopard skin (again, it was safari themed), and desperate to get home to bed.

When suddenly - I see flashing blue lights behind me. An indication that I need to pull over. A chill running up my spine. And the very certain knowledge that this is not going to be one of the more fun episodes in my life.

Winding down my window (so to speak. My car has electric window switches. But you know what I mean) with shaking hands, I am accosted - very politely, genially, almost - by the Australian Federal Police. Then followed an inspection of my licence (I actually wondered if he had laser vision, and would make it shrivel in his hand, so intense was his look), a breathalyser test, and - joy of joys - a random drugs test. Having never, ever been pulled over before, this was a whole new experience - and one I could very definitely have done without.

The drugs test took a total of 10 minutes to complete and gain the results of, and despite knowing with absolute certainty that I was clean (I just say "No!") - they were amongst the most terrifying 10 minutes of my life. Waiting for my policeman to come back, I shook like a leaf. I leafed like a shook. Oh yes - it was that bad.

So. Friends. Readers. Fans. My adoring public.

Worry not. I am not writing this from prison. I have no fear of dropping the soap in the shower. My track record remains - as always - clean as a whistle.

The Fuzz and I have parted ways, and hopefully we shall not meet again. Because let me tell you something. If I couldn't survive a university shared house, there's no way I can stay at one of Her Majesty's "special" hotels. Not until they get in good olive oil, anyway.

And so, I bid you adieu for now.

Let this be a lesson for you: don't drink and drive. Always just say no to drugs. And never move in to shared accommodation.

Love,

Belle x

Belle gets a shock

Boys and girls, I know that you were expecting the big news of today to be my haircut (and just to update you on that, it was a complete and total success. No paper bags necessary, no mutilation of my follicles - all good.) - but no. Today, I have something different to share with you : the moment when I nearly came home, without even a suitcase packed.

Let me explain.

Hard as the homesickness is, I thought (in my naivety) that it was the worst thing I'd have to deal with (other than the Monday morning blues, the slow weaning from my all-too-present chocolate addiction, and the fear of trying a new hairdresser). But no. On Saturday night, on an all-too normal phonecall home, I was told to sit down, and not get too upset. This is never a good way to start a conversation. Trouble only ever stems from this kind of talk. And so it did.

It turned out that a very dear friend of mine, who's place in my life is somewhere between second mum and pimp (hell, she wants grandbabies, and apparently she wants me to give them to her...) had had not 1, but 2 heart attacks. I think my own heart stopped when I heard the news.

The good news, thank G-d, is that she's doing well, is being cared for well, and has enough energy to shout at me down the phone for 1) spending the money on a phone-call, and 2) worrying about her. Don't you love parental logic at its best?!

The other good news, is that she's currently surrounded by hot male doctors (at least, given her chirpy tone on the phone, I assume she is) which means that whilst there is a potential lawsuit waiting to happen there (I joke, she would never leap on any of them...), she's a happy bunny and can enjoy the eye candy (even if it is eye candy that's putting her on "nil by mouth" - ooh Doctor! - and is bringing her yucky hospital food).

Not that I want to make this about myself - because quite clearly, it's not, and my focus is on my friend - but it brought home to me once again not just the distance, but the difficulties involved in choosing to live so far from home. Whenever you move countries, you're always going to be those extra few hours away, but when you're living on what's truly the other side of the planet (for almost everywhere) - it doesn't half scare the bejeezus out of you, especially when you need to get home ASAP.

As it is, I haven't booked my plane ticket home just yet - and nor do I intend to. Babs, my friend, is one of the strongest people I know, and I have every confidence that until I've met someone, gotten married, and popped out at least 2 children, she won't be going anywhere. Not to mention that after having her first heart attack she went cycling ("Stop being silly, I feel fine...)" and it wasn't until her second heart attack the next day that she decided it maybe was time to see the Doctor... What a woman! And honestly, I fully expect for her to live forever. That may not be a realistic way of looking at things, but - it's what I hope for when it comes to the people I love.

So what's the message of this post? Possibly 1) Is that Babs' doctors should watch out. 2) Is that from thinking a new haircut was the scariest thing that could happen to me, I had a rude shock to the system. And 3) is that - however much time passes, you never forget the distance between what will always be your home, and the people you love. Illness is a great way of reminding you just how many miles and hours of travel there are between you - but the distance doesn't stop how you caring, or thinking about the people you've left behind (so to speak).

Talking to ex-pats over here, from the ones who've been here a month to the ones who've been here a decade - we all agree that home is always home. And your friends - wherever they are - are always your friends, and always in your heart. Hair grows. Friendships develop. My hair may sometimes get covered in a paper bag, but my friends never will be (and if you understand what I mean by that, then you're doing better than me. I just wrote it - I have no idea what it really means...)

On that note - I bid you farewell for now.

With love

Belle x

Hair and Homesickness

Cat Stevens, back in the day - before he became Yusuf Islam - sung perhaps one of the more profound songs of the 20th century:

The first cut is the deepest
Baby I know the first cut is the deepest
But when it come to being lucky she's cursed...


And so it goes on. Oh Cat - your understanding of emotional complexities is peerless. 


You see, if I can apply his DAM (deep and meaningfuls) to my own life, they take on a whole new level of meaning. Gentle reader, it is now over 3 months since I left the UK. That means many things: 3 months since I have tasted real chocolate (most of what we get over here is made with chemically altered dairy products, modified so as to be able to withstand the Australian heat and long journey to get here). 3 months since I have seen my friends,  family and "London Massive". 3 months since I was in the same timezone - let alone the same room - as some of the people who mean the most to me. But this is nothing, nothing in comparison to the final insult of the last 3 months: that my hair has not been trimmed, cut, masqued, or otherwise maintained. No - I have not had my hair properly cared for since leaving the UK. And that was in August. Yes, August.


Reader, I have had my trust in people thrown back in my face in a variety of ways over the course of my 24 years on this planet. But never, never has this been done more viciously and with more traumatic results, than by a hairdresser. So you can see why I would hesitate before I would ring a salon, and make that appointment. The comeback could be (literally) hideous.

I mean, I'm all for booking a oneway ticket halfway around the earth, to an unknown city, to begin a new life, with no plan more specific than "that could be fun, let's see how it goes" - but having a hair cut without doing the appropriate research? What do you think I am - crazy?! So you will understand, bearing that in mind, that it was with a sense of great trepidation that I recently picked up the phone and dialled Hair Rescue (a number disconcertingly found under "Got Possums?" in the White-Book Phone Directory).

Now, before you write in to express your shock (I am, after all, not the kind of girl who has ever been associated - even by phone directory proximity, with anything related to possums, let alone personally having them) - Hair Rescue has a stirling recommendation. A recommendation from none other than a JSAP. (To those not in the know, that's a Jewish South African Princess). And my oh my - if you've not encountered a JSAP, they really know their stuff. Do not mess. Any recommendation from them I would value more highly than a good bar of Dairy Milk right now (and that's saying something).

As of today we are on a countdown of T-4 days (that is Time to haircut: 4 days), and as the big moment approaches I feel sweaty-palmed with anticipation. Will I end up less Belle de Sydney, more Tacky of Target (Target being a low budget store, of the Primark "reputation")?

Only time can tell. But with a JSAP on my side, let's hope that I can't go wrong. And if the worst happens, and I emerge with a mullet of the calibre that would make the 80s cringe - I will take a deep breathe, count slowly to 10, and remember Cat Stevens...

With love,

Belle x (who may not be a JSAP, but is nonetheless a Princess, and proud.)

A London Girl gets homesick

Boys and girls, its now been 3 months since I left the UK for the distant shores of Oz.

During that time, I've cried (and not just at my bad dates...), enjoyed experiencing sunshine for more than 4 consecutive days at a time (yes, really! Sunny Sydney is quite a contrast to London), had my first sunburn Down Under (and boy, that hurt), changed my vocab (yes, I admit it. I now say "dude" and "far out". Don't judge me), and - to summarise - have undergone a completely new way of living.

On the surface, it feels like very little has changed over the last couple of months since arriving here - I still live with family. I still work at the same job (which is good). I'm still attempting to create a social whirl for myself (to varying success). And I'm still acclimatising, in general, to life in a different hemisphere, twelve thousand miles from home.

But - and this is a big but - I've hit the wall. The three month itch, apparently common amongst ex-pats. The novelty's worn off, but the real settling in hasn't begun. Instead, I'm in a weird halfway position, where I miss home - yet feel out of the loop with life back there - and simultaneously feel out of the loop with life Down Under. It's like I'm an iPod, and the Cloud hasn't yet synced me (where that simile came from I don't know. Enjoy my brain's randomness, that's all I ask of you).

So, where does that leave me?

Pining for home, admittedly.

At the same time, unwilling to go back any time soon (just for a visit), because I have the very strong (and probably correct) notion, that should I do so - coming home to Sydney will be exceptionally difficult.

So that means I stay in Sydney, pull my socks up, jut out my stiff upper lip, and fall back on that famous English Reserve to get me through. Either that, or a large glass of Pinot Noir should do the trick.

But no - seriously. The effect of The Wobble has meant a pause in proceedings. A break. A chance for my brain to take its own version of a KitKat (have a break, have a ...). And so - the planned house hunting has stopped. Instead, I'm re-appreciating the joys of staying with family, not having to cook my own meals (a mixed blessing, in truth), and having that bit more support.

It strikes me that this process - because it is definitely a process, and not something that ended with boarding the plane, or getting a job, or any of that - is ongoing in a way I really hadn't imagined. The good days and bad days come and go - still with far more good days than bad - and the settling in will take a while yet.

Upsides: I ride a ferry to work. Living with family means I have emotional support, the chance to buy my own car (rather than spending that money on rent, and thus having to rely on the pretty poor public transport system), and yet total freedom to what I want, as and when I want. I'm making friends. Work is good. Skype is the world's best invention. And I don't have to fly Qantas to go home...

Downsides: There's 12,000 miles between me and some of the people I love the most in this world. What more is there to say than that?

Folks, I leave you with one parting thought.

As Dorothy said (ironically, in The Wizard of Oz...) "There's no place like home".

Love to everyone, at home and abroad

Belle x

Signs that I'm becoming Australian...

• It's starting to get very tempting to say "G'day". So far I've resisted. To be honest, I'm pretty concerned that the Aussies would think I was taking the piss, and would then hurl Pom-related abuse at me. But still - I never thought that, three months in, I'd be at the "G'day" stage. Hmm.

• Anything below 23C I now class as cold. Already, my body is becoming less cold-resistant, and thus - probably, weaker, as it acclimatises to the warm and hospitable Australian climate. I may never be able to return to the UK - how will I cope?!

• Cherry Ripe chocolate bars are my life. It's taken a bit of practice at eating them to really enjoy them (to me, the concept of cherries and chocolate is a fairly foreign one... We have nothing like them in the UK - but then, I guess that practicing eating chocolate is no bad thing either...) - but they're now a regular addition to my shopping basket. A Cherry Ripe = a happy Belle.

• "How are you?" has been replaced by "How you going?". I don't care that it's not really correct English, and is grammatically a bit shaky. "How you going?" is my new thing.

• I'm all about the soy, rice, or coconut milk. Real cow-milk is so not the Australian dream. These people have risen above lactose, and I'm with them.

More tales from Down Under coming soon...

Love,

Belle de Sydney x

Return of the Blog

Fans, Readers, Friends and Stalkers What can I say? How can I make my being absent (for so long!) ok? Firstly – I’m sorry. It was never my intention to be (emotionally / technologically) distant. Secondly – much as I have every intention of keeping up this blog, and being in close contact with you – it can be hard. Getting life going in Sydney, making new friends, trying to make time for old friends (especially when that time difference comes into play!), and then dealing with the usual everyday things – work, admin, etc. – it all sometimes can be a bit much. It’s not that I don’t care, but it’s just hard to maintain a life in the UK and make a life in Sydney. I want to make that work – but if there’s a lapse between me writing, then – it’s just a sign that whatever’s going on Down Under is keeping me temporarily occupied (and hopefully, therefore, out of mischief... Or maybe actually, in mischief. You’ll find out either way, from my blogs...) So – what can I tell you about this last month? Well, I went on the worst date of my life (and that takes some beating – the previous winner of this amazing title was a man who – looking deeply into my eyes, said with great sincerity, and a very heavy Carribean accent “You know, if I’m Superman – you’re my Kyrptonite”.The memory still makes me vom a little bit in my mouth...) But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me tell you all about Awful Date – The Winner (Loser?) 2011. Now this boy – let’s call him Nick - I met whilst I was out last week watching the rugby with some of the other Brits I know - he's the friend of a guy I work with, and he initially seemed pretty interesting. (Note to self for future - Heston Blumenthal's bacon and egg ice cream is interesting. That doesn't make it right). We arranged to go out on Saturday night, as I was busy before then. As date-night came around I was feeling a bit awkward and unsure, but decided to “give it a go” anyway. This was a bad move. Nothing good ever comes from “giving something a go”. (British Leyland gave things a go. Look at what happened to them.) No, it not the sign of enthusiasm. And an unenthusiastic first date is a bad-date in waiting. Lesson learned. But I digress... Nick and I meet up in Central Sydney, and it is raining buckets. Like, ridiculously. And there's me, in my heels, hair done, looking nice - and desperately just wanting to get into the warmth. And away from him. Because there he is, wearing a red polo neck (yes really) and jeans. Oh dear. We walk up the road (me desperately holding onto my brolly) for 3 BLOCKS (a block is about 300-400m, so - quite  a way. In heels. And rain) and I finally turn around to him and ask how far from the place we are, and he goes - "Oh it's 2 blocks BACK, I just thought it would be nice to go for a walk." It was not nice to go for a walk. Especially in the rain. Stupid Boy. When we finally reached our venue (by which time I was half drowned, and hypothermia was setting in), I was struck by 2 things: 1) How few clothes the girls inside were wearing, and 2) How few clothes the girls inside were wearing. I wasn’t sure if it was a Strip Club or a Restaurant, but apparently it was a clever combination of the two. How romantic. What was making things even worse, however, was just how awkward it was. And not just because of his vile red polo-neck. Lots of long pauses in the conversation. Lots of weird moments where he said things like : “On our 1 year anniversary we should...” (NO, Do not bring up future anniversaries on the FIRST DATE) “Let's have a bake-off” (Excuse me?) “Some of my girl friends are so jealous I'm going on a date” (they're welcome to you) “You're such a cutie. I really, really like you. You're very feminine but strong. That's a turn on.” OMG I have never, ever tried to leave somewhere so fast (and that includes a childhood incident when I fell into a pond with a lot of frogspawn in it. I’d take the frogspawn down my wellies over Nick’s company any day of the week). I even went to the toilet for 5 minutes just to get away. When finally the waiter came and asked if we wanted tea / coffee (I almost cried with relief that the night was over), my response was an emphatic “NO” barely before the question had even been asked. Ditto when Nick asked me if I wanted to go on elsewhere for a drink :”NO, I'm tired" (it was 10pm... ah dear) He then walks me back to my car (by this point things are so desperate that I’m faking a problem with my contact lense), I kiss him on the cheek, say something non-committal (rather than “Thank you for a lovely time” it was more like “Thank you for a....er... time...”  and zoomed off at quite a pace. About 2 minutes later I get a text  - oh yes, the pain’s not over til it’s really at the point of needing emotional morphine: "So... I kinda feel like that didn't go so well... Is it something I said?" YES. SOMETHING YOU SAID, DID, AND WORE. (Oh yes, I forgot to mention, he got massively grumpy when it became clear it wasn't going so well- very monosyllabic. And weirdly competitive with me. Not cool) Anyway, I didn’t reply (partly because I was driving, partly because I was at a total loss) I then get another text 30 minutes later (please bear in mind I’d only been home for 10 minutes, so it wasn’t as though I could reply immediately even if I wanted to. Which I obviously didn’t. But that’s besides the point) - "Ok. I really liked you but whatever. Have a nice life" Ladies and gentlemen – WTF?! Other things to mention from the worst date ever – He kept trying to get me to agree to play scrabble with him (No. It’s not a game I enjoy. I get very competitive. And I don’t like being forced into doing things I don’t want to. So no.), and was also pushing me to tell him something nobody else knew about me (Firstly – no. Secondly - there's not much my "besties' don’t know. Thirdly – again, just no.)  His response to all this was, "Well, I'm blind in one eye". At this point, I think I started whimpering slightly (it was all becoming far too much to handle), and Googling nunneries on my iPhone. Readers, tell me now - is it time for me to give up altogether?! So that is the sorry story of the worst date ever. Please share my pain, confusion, and sorrow then – as I have tried to do – take a deep breath, and let it go. (And be very grateful it wasn’t you.) Now – off boys and on to other (less important, obviously) subjects... I’ve begun to have a work life balance, I just need now to discover a work/life/sleep balance (what I believe is technically known as the Holy Trinity) I have discovered that not only does Australia promote an equal opportunities ice cream (Golden Gaytime, anyone?) but that it also enjoys pushing the boundaries on its dairy products (as the below photo shows) And I think – really – that’s it. To summarise, this month has taught me 1)     Guys who are not Italian, studenty, or massively attractive should never ever wear polo-necks. And G-d forbid that said polo-neck is red. 2)     I have had some truly atrocious dates 3)     That a trip to an Australian supermarket is almost as good as a visit to the Comedy Store 4)     That being visually impaired with a bad personality does not make me attracted to you 5)     That although my best intentions may not always be followed through as I would like (i.e. with staying in touch with everyone back home), the thought and love is always there, and always will be. Fact. I will write again soon. Honestly. Love Belle x

Partying with the Fossils

Normally, I would think of myself as the fossil. Despite being a mere 23 years of age (nearly 24), I am a bit of a grandma. I regard anything after 10pm as late. I like pyjamas, and a nice flannel dressing gown. A toasted tea-cake is my idea of heaven. And I've started saying, "just looking at *gestures at under-dressed person* is making me feel cold".

But recently, boys and girls, I was not the fossil at the party. Oh no. In fact, I was several million years younger than the other attendees. I was (to quote one of the best expressions ever) still in my salad days.

Let me explain...

Every year, the Australia Museum of Sydney stays open til late for 3 nights. For those 3 nights, bars are set up amongst the exhibits, special shows put on (quite how special I'll soon reveal), and a silent disco takes place in the atrium where the vast skeletons are hung.

To put it simply - 3 times per year, the Australia museum gets its groove on. And wow - does it make museums cool.

I'll admit to being a bit of a Museum-Geek (the British Museum was always my spiritual UK home), so it seems fitting that I've now adopted the Australia Museum as my own. And what an inaugural visit. Going there with 2 Aussies, 1 fellow-Brit (huzzah!) and a Saffra (read my last post if you don't understand that reference), we took our places in the queue, and awaited the delights in store...

And oh, what delights they were!

The silent disco (which is a far too cool for school concept) was first on our list of must-do's, and we all carefully avoided eye-contact, whilst shaking it like a polaroid picture (to quote Outkast) to Cyndi Lauper / Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.

From there, we were off to collect our wine (oddly, the beautiful, large wine bar was located where the bugs are displayed... Now, don't tell me that couldn't lead to some nasty moments! Who wants to have a glass of Pinot Noir whilst looking at the World's Largest Cockroach? I mean, seriously?!), and continued our tour by heading to the stage...

And suddenly I was so so grateful for that wine.

You see, the "interesting" show we went to watch - Lucy and the Glitterboard (or something like that), should really have been Lucy and the Glitterballs. By which I mean - the show was a burlesque show. A transsexual burlesque show. With nudity. And balls. What balls. His/her balls (both in the lower and upper regions) were flying all over the place. Thank goodness for standing several feet back. I could have had quite a nasty injury (and no-one wants "scrotum in face" as part of their hospital report card)...












From watching someone else's furry animal, to going to see the stuffed ones, the night progressed apace. Armed with wine, the happy thought that Tranny-Burlseque shows are surely a once-in-a-lifetime experience (and thus, mine was over), and the joy of the exhibitions (only the Austrlians would put a skeleton on a fully functional bike, or a kiddy's skeleton on a dinosaur, to re-create (with bones) the Never Ending Story), the evening went quickly, and suddenly it was past my bedtime. By which I mean, it was 9:30pm and I was tired.

And so ended another night of fun and frolics Down Under.

And what did my highly educational evening of fun, trannies and wine teach me? That even the best skeletons arranged in the most fun way possible, don't make up for the absence of friends from home. That wine is always the answer when a Burlesque dancer with "the full equipment" is the question. And that Australian nightlife - closing down before 10pm - gives me just enough time for  a cup of cocoa and a rich tea biscuit before bedtime.

Night night folks.

Granny Belle needs her beauty sleep.

More adventures coming soon.
Until then,

Belle x

Amazeballs, and other quirks of life Down Under

Today I thought I'd share with you some of the more unexpected results of my move Down Under. Read, laugh, weep, enjoy, and most of all - please don't judge me ....

1. That watching a film - any film - which features England in even the most minor way can bring a little tear to my eyes... For example, watching "One Day" very recently, there were scenes set in grotty parts of London, which (not to sound like a snob, but quite honestly) I'd never ever go to. Now, because I'm in Australia, I watched with a deep sense of appreciation and fondness.  I might even have let out a little "Aaawwww". Ahem.

2.  This also works for when I cast my mind back to my old commute of an hour and a quarter, 1 train and 2 tubes into central London. In hindsight, I can get quite nostalgic remembering "the good old days" back home. Except the truth was, I hated that commute. Bizarre.

3. A trip to the supermarket - if it involves a British Section - becomes the source of immense excitement. As one ex-pat who I've met described it, "It's not that I'd ever want to have HP Sauce, it's just comforting to see it there".

4. Also on that note, you find yourself trawling the shops to find out who sells the McVities Jaffa Cakes. This information is then excitedly reported back to all ex-pat acquaintances, and before long, you find yourself getting rather competitive. "Just because Heather found out where the PG Tips was being sold, doesn't mean she has to be so stuck-up, the cow. I found the pickled onions, surely that must count for something?? Where's my recognition?!"

5. Hearing a British accent makes your heart swell a bit. "My people" you think, smiling to yourself. (I'm serious - does no-one else get this?)... This extends to Scottish accents too, although the degree of metaphorical heart-swelling is reduced. I mean, it's not the best accent out of all of the British Isles...

6.  "Amazeballs" becomes a regular part of your vocab. All of the Aussies are at it. I can resist no longer. For example: "OMG that cake looks totally amazeballs".

7. Ditto "super-fun" or "super exciting". I started off saying it ironically. But the persistent level of enthusiasm here is hard to beat. And I now genuinely do find things "super fun". As I said, please don't judge me.

8. Having packages arrive from the UK becomes the highlight of your week. This week I had 2. That was not only amazeballs, but super-exciting. (You see what I mean? The Aussies have come up with some great words there. I mean, terrible words, but great).

9. The development of a slightly new twang. Except, rather than Australian, mine is South African. In fact, I frequently get very confused as to where I am - and it's only the sight of the Opera House, the Harbour Bridge, and the Aussie flag that I actually remember. Australia is full of South Africans and most of my colleagues are "Saffras" (as the South Africans, previously unbeknownst to me, call themselves). This means that for 11 hours per day, I'm being mentally transformed, and am developing a worrying penchant for Saffra phrases and speech patterns. A worrying number of sentances are now being finished with "hey". (As in, "Her dress is really nice, hey". (Note, that is said as a statement, not a question. That's the disconcerting thing.))

10. I have started visiting - and quite liking - Irish pubs. Ok, I should clarify that, before my London Massive collapse with shock - I have visited 1 Irish pub. And I liked it because there were some cute (non-Irish) guys in there. And also because the rugby was on, and it was very funny seeing them all get super-emotional (ahem, vocab), even though I have to admit, that result was pretty stunning. Wallabies - you got told. (And no, I am not a rugby enthusiast. But now that I'm in Australia, I have to pretend...)

Ok, I think I shall stop my public humiliation there. I just thought I'd share.

More news from Down Under coming soon.

Until then,

Yours,
Belle x

Tales of Woe, House-hunting & Goldilocks

Gentle reader, it has been a week since my last update.

Just a week.

And yet, in that time I have been inside 4 boys' bedrooms. I have traversed the wilds of Sydney (such as they are) on several occasions, and only once... maybe twice... gone the wrong way down a one way street when my sat-nav led me astray. And I have come to appreciate, in a whole new way, how Goldilocks must have felt.

But let me go back to the beginning. The very beginning.

Upon first coming to Sydney, I was staying with distant relatives who lived up to their (distant) relationship status, and showed all the warmth, closeness and compassion of the average lizard. If that lizard were having a very off-day. I could only wish that they were physically as distant as they were emotionally and genetically. After a fortnight during which being water-boarded began to sound attractive as an alternative option to their company (I joke... they weren't quite that bad. Although it was an increasingly close call), I decided enough was enough - and it was time to up-sticks and move out.

But where? I'd only just come out to Sydney. I had a job (just) but no pay-cheque due for over a month. Add to the mix a still rather delicate and battle / emigration-scarred psyche (for all my bravado, I'm a delicate flower. Even if I may come across as the kind of delicate flower usually attached to a cactus) and I realised that getting my own place was still a distant dream. Yet I knew that for my own comfort I had to leave. So, in much the same way as Nelly the Elephant did - I packed my trunk, and said goodbye to the circus (they were the circus). And moved to... a family friend's house. Oh, how the thick plottened. Or the plot thickened. Whichever.

One month later, and it's become clear that it's time to leave the FFs behind. The FFs (family friends) have 2 small, yappy dog which are enough to make me - an ardent dog lover (or should I rephrase that as an ardent appreciator of dogs? Hmmm...) - want to create 2 "fun size" fur rugs out of them. Although the FFs have been generous to have me in their home, the point came and went when it was timely for me to leave. And that point was when a 70 year old man (Mr FF), wearing underwear and not much else, expounded his "feelings" about female attractiveness. A therapist is going to make a lot of money from me one day, following that happy episode.

Whilst I wait for the emotional trauma to set in, I have a temporary place to stay organised (with my uncle & auntie, who have never yet been known to sit in their underwear & talk at me, so that's a positive already), am away from the FFs, and can begin the house-hunting in earnest. And let me tell you, of all the many things that house-hunting has taught me so far (for example, that finding somewhere pretty, accessible, and not-too expensive is ridiculously tricky... although I believe that's one of life's accepted facts), one of the biggest lessons I'm taking from it is an understanding of how Goldilocks must have felt, all those fairy-tale years ago.

I'm not joking. Think of her. She's in someone else's environment. She's searching for something just right (ok, in her case it was porridge and she was trespassing, but still) and the poor girl just cannot catch a break. The first bowl is too hot (in real estate terms, I'm not sure what that equates to. But it wouldn't be good). The second bowl too cold (again, not good). But then, finally, she gets it right. I think for me, that translates into the house-hunting equivalent of finding a great apartment around McMahons Point (google it), with good housemates, a good price, and Ryan Gosling (of "The Notebook" fame) dropping by on a regular basis. Alas, for her - as for me - the dream of good porridge is not to be, and she wakes up surrounded by angry, savage animals. Again, she and I have that in common, although sadly for me - that stage of proceedings has happened already. (I joke, the FFs weren't so bad... most of the time...)

So, what can I draw from this?

Well, unlike Goldilocks (who ran away screaming from the bears - which I can, based on my living experiences so far, well understand) - I ain't going nowhere. (Except to a new place all of my own.) I'm intent on getting this process "just right" and sticking it out til the end.

Thus far, I reckon I'm somewhere at the beginning / middle of the process (please, please let me be in the middle! I can't take much more of this!), and have seen:

• A shoebox with a pricetag of $480 per week (this was frankly ridiculous)
• A miniature-palace on the North Shore waterfront. Sadly, this came with 2 very "kooky" housemates, who were so determined to be "chilled out" that I think they must have been amongst the most stressed people I've met. Repeating "I am relaxed, I am relaxed" through gritted teeth and with clenched buttocks must surely defeat the object?! (Perhaps I'm bitter though, they rejected me as a potential housemate, due to my relative youth. This was both a compliment, and a very great irritation)
• A reasonable Kirribilli "unit" complete with one very weird male housemate, who was literally terrifying. I gave him a false name. That's how weirded out I was. He kept wanting me to go back to look at the bedroom. Yikes.
• A Bondi flat with an Israeli Jewish housemate, who looked at me and twitched his nostrils repeatedly. I was terrified that this signified his ability to smell the non-kosher on me. Although perhaps that's a sign of my own paranoia. He may have just had a twitchy nose. I may be being judgemental. Who knows.

So that's how, in the space of just a week, I've been in 4 boys' bedrooms. And that is why my tales are of woe. And humour. And a unique appreciation for Goldilocks.

More adventures coming soon. I'll keep you updated...

Love,

Belle x

Introducing... The Mad Mexican

So, you know how in my last post, I said that life Down Under hadn't been hugely exciting of late? That there wasn't too much to report? Well, the events of the last 3 hours have completely turned that one on its head. And as I'm a dedicated blogger now (and also because I like a bit of a gossip, even if it is done electronically), I've rushed straight home to update you all...

Now before I start the story, it's worth you knowing the background. My family history is fairly complex, especially on my dad's side. The pertinent facts are these: my family is Jewish, although my parents and I have always been non-practicing. The lure of pork outweighs the lure of heavenly rewards (I mean, come on! A bacon sandwich is our heavenly reward, available on a daily basis, here on earth. Am I wrong?!).

But anyhow - my dad has a brother, Larry. And Larry married a non-Jew, who converted in order for his parents (my grandparents) to be happy bunnies. So, my Auntie - the Mad Mexican (this is actually her name... just so long as you don't use it to her face...) - is technically not Jewish, as she wasn't "born in" to the religion, as orthodox Jews believe you need to be, in order to be truly Jewish. To coin another technical term, she's also a raging bitch. (Harsh words, but true)

Before I carry on, I'd like to say that from my perspective, Larry should have married whoever he wanted to, Jewish or not, whether they converted or not. As per one of my earlier posts - I'm a believer in free love, free speech, and free chocolate (although the latter is yet to be really looked at by the UN. I'm hopeful that one day it will happen. But I digress). What matters to me is that someone has a good heart. The rest - colour / orientation / religion etc. is just background.

But Larry married the Mad Mexican (hereon known as MM), who - as the name suggests - is Mexican. And insane. And a bitch. Wow, this is becoming a tirade. Let me explain...

For 'Shabbat lunch' today, I was invited to the Larry & MM household. Now this was always going to be a tricky one. My father is shunned by them, for marrying my (non-Jewish) stepmum.  (My mother is Jewish, which makes me Jewish and therefore acceptable in L & MM's eyes. Indeed, I'm practically "Super-Jew" having both sides who are entirely and completely Jewish). But my dad has broken the rules. And as a result, his existence is denied & denounced by the MM.

Now here's the thing - I don't do shunning. And I don't do people f*cking with people I care about. And my dad's the best. And he's happy with my stepmum. And other than her occasionally beating me with wet towels (she likes to live up to the stepmother stereotype) my stepmum is a great human being. Ok, she obsesses a bit about cleanliness (which is fine when you're a guest, not so much when you're living there...) - but no - in seriousness. She's great. The short story here is that giving me grief about either of them, or indeed, anyone I care about, is not going to go down particularly well. I'm loyal, like a shih tsu (see below):

Cute and fluffy on the outside, but a lioness inside. That's me.

So - I'm at lunch. I'm aware that my parents (i.e. my dad and stepmum) are shunned, which makes me feel fairly uncomfortable. I'm also aware that the Mad Mexican (she emigrated from Mexico when she met Larry) has dragon breath, and an expression to match. Fortunately, she's only 4'8, so should she really irritate me, I am prepared to squash her. Or knee her in the jaw. Whichever. (She really brings out the violence in me - not good). Anyway, I sit down, and Larry, the MM, and my 3 cousins (actually very sweet girls, despite their hideous mother) do the whole Jewish thing. I don't know quite what. I'm aware that prayers were involved. Beyond that - no idea. I just assumed the standard position of looking deep in thought, combined with an expression of serious attention. In all likelihood, I actually ended up looking quite constipated, but anyway.

Lunch gets underway. The MM is also a terrible "cook". Our starter was grated carrot with tinned pineapple. Yes, really. This was followed by thrice boiled gefilte fish. Then crisps. Then poached chicken (no. Just no). Then bread. I tell you, if my original look of constipation wasn't authentic, it would be later. I was, for the most part, concentrating on having tiny quantities of everything, and not mentioning bacon / prawns / how much I love uncircumcised men.

And then the MM raises her ugly head. "Your father" she spits, "is sh*t".

This wasn't war. This was nuclear. And let me tell you now - that does not work for me.

Now, Larry - my dad's brother - was right there. He said nothing. But then how could he? He's been so verbally castrated by the MM for so many years now, I'm amazed he doesn't get confused about which changing room to use. (As in, he's forgotten that he's a man. Their marriage is a mystery to me. But anyway.)

I could have let the comment go. Goodness knows, I'd let enough others go already; "Your cousin, she is so stupid and ugly"  Look who's talking  "Your aunt, she gives sh*t presents. She is cheap and mean. Disgusting" etc.

But no, I'd been calm. I'd been nice. I'd sat politely through her rant about these "bloody foreigners in Australia" (Hello? You're MEXICAN). I'd listened to her talking about how the politicians were exaggerating about Mugabe, and that he's really a pretty fair guy (no comment). I'd heard a Jew-bashing on a grand scale (said of an acquaintance, "Her mother, she is not Jewish by birth. She only converted" So did you, you weirdo etc). I'd eaten the (gross) food. In short, I'd been pretty good. Extremely good.

But this - this was the final straw. Looking straight into her eyes (or what could be seen of them, under the bushy growth of eyebrow... why she doesn't tweeze is beyond me. I mean, I have "issues" on that score, but I groom regularly), I said very calmly, but with ice in my voice (no, I'm not dramatising) "Tara (her official, non MM name), I appreciate you having me in your home. However. I will not sit here and listen to you speak about my father like that".

Silence.

Larry was hiding under the table at this point, terrified that she'd reduce his (surely already seriously diminished) manhood to nothing. The girls, my cousins, were looking on dumbfounded. The sound of silence resounded as, for about a minute, Tara looked at me shocked. I think that the last person to challenge her was back in 1996. So this was unfamiliar territory for her.

I smiled, but didn't move. Didn't say anything. Just waited.

Eventually, (and with a heavy and almost incomprehensible accent, which I should have mentioned before), she says "Ok. So tell me about your degree..."

And that was that. War declared, a dictat issued, and a surrender (or truce, at least) issued shortly thereafter. It's not peace, and I doubt it ever will be - but she knows that I am always and unfailingly prepared to leave her house at any time. And as and when I have to, it will be straight into the arms of a non-Jewish man, eating a bacon sandwich. Yeah baby.

Boys and girls, I'm off now to see if I can't break some more laws on Kashrut (kosher stuff) before Shabbat is out.

I'll write again soon.

With love,

Belle de Sydney (proudly non-Kosher, non-discriminatory, but anti-Mad Mexicans)
x

Food, Fear and Ferries

Well, hello again!

I thought that I'd use this post to share one of the more significant aspects of my move - namely, food. 

There's the food from home that I can't get over here (including Percy Pigs, from the joy that is M&S... oh, how I miss M&S...).

Then there's the food over here that I don't understand (vegemite - I mean, no. Just no).

Ach. But both of these experience can be glossed over when face with the prospect of new food. I mean, 

completely new food. An unchartered gastronomic experience. How exciting is that?!  Although it also brings with it the dread of looking like an idiot as all of the natives / non-foreigners as I call them (yes, I am tremendously un-PC) look at you aghast as you cross-question the waiter / cafe guy about what exactly something is. But anyone who's ever had a traumatic experience with food (which, in my experience, is most people) knows that cross-questioning is the only answer. That, and an epi pen. (I joke - food allergies are serious. But so is being served up herring, when the waiter has only previously mentioned "A very light, delicate fish"... yeah. Right.)

So where was I? Oh yes, new food. Now, one of the things about my new job, is that the hours are off the charts. I'm in at 7:30am, and don't leave before 6pm - which is better than some places, but a whole lot worse than others. Now, the fact that I enjoy it is a good thing. The fact that I get in before I even want to eat brekkie (come on people, let's get down with the Aussie slang) is a bad thing. And then I discovered our foodhall. And the Bircher Muesli which lay within. A breakfast which, ironically, is European - and yet which I have never, ever seen in London / Europe in general before.

Bircher Muesli is exciting on a whole new scale. It's oats, soaked in apple juice, cinammon, nutmeg and yoghurt, left overnight, then eaten next day with dried and fresh fruit, and a dash of honey. Oh yeah. It's good. Although now I start to wax lyrical about it, I realise that I sound like a very sad person. Oh well. I could only keep up the facade for so long.

So, time to move on to something more interesting. There's the barramundi... no, I can't write a post about fish, however good it is. That really is scraping the barrel (literally... get it... I mean, it's not the barrel it's the sea, but... oh forget it).

Ok, perhaps it's time to forget food altogether. 

In truth, my dear readers, there's been little in the way of weirdos, or strange incidents. There's been a random Zionist on my ferry each day, trying to get me to move back to the Fatherland / Motherland (why are siblings excluded? What about Sisterland? Or Brotherland?). Sadly, my enormous propensity to eat pork products and anything (well, everything) forbidden, closed that conversation quick-sharp. Shame. There's been the toenail clipper-er on that very same ferry (who does indeed, disgustingly, clip his toenails whilst we're all in transit together. Ewww).

But no, not much else. Life right now is a mad balancing act of keeping work together, keeping myself fed and watered (a task I can genuinely forget to do), and remembering friends back home (although I could never forget them) whilst trying to make new friends here.

The weird thing is, I've realised in recent days what I'm scared of. I'm scared of not having a good time, not enjoying it, and wanting to go home tomorrow. I'm scared it will all just peter out into nothing, and I'll be 12,000 miles from home and feeling like I've gotten it all wrong.

And then, I'm also scared I will enjoy it. That I won't want to come home. That I'll be so happy here, I won't be able to contemplate a return trip ever.

So, what have I decided to do with my split-personality dilemma? In truth: nothing. Or rather, I'm trying to laugh at myself, because really this is becoming ridiculous now.  It's time to step away from the Kleenex. (I joke, my Kleenex dependence is very reduced right now. Hurray) And just in case of homesickness, I'm trying to give myself more me time, as a way of self-calming (which in truth, I don't really need. I'm trying to not feel the fear, and do it anyway. Isn't that a maverick, but so much better, approach?!). 

All of us need our me-time. Some of us take it in the bath. Some in front of the TV, with HobNobs (alas, I miss McVities!) and Hot Chocolate. Some of us take it sitting on the loo, reading magazines. Personally, I refuse to comment which camp(s) I fit into.

What I will say is this. That a little tub of Bircher Muesli (yes, we're back to that) and a view of a hot man in a wet wetsuit is my little piece of heaven. It's my Muller Corner, Diet Coke moment, and Galaxy (to continue with the food theme) rolled into one. And any country I can enjoy that in, means that whatever my worries are - they're probably / definitely pretty insignificant. 

In seriousness - as much as I can expound and dramatise my life and my move, I'm aware of so much more going on at a global, national and local level. I may be a drama queen. But even I know if the show's really a Broadway production or not.

Boys and girls, so end my thoughts for today. 

For those who wish to learn, please find below my Bircher Muesli recipe. For those who don't wish to learn - I have nothing to say. Go, frolic, have fun, and live in a world without Bircher Muesli. You will never know how much you're missing out on. 

Love,

Belle x

Belle's Bircher Muesli

• 1 cup rolled oats
• 1/2 cup fresh apple juice 
• 1/2 cup yoghurt (Greek style... I may be un-PC at times, but even I know the superior yoghurt masters)
• handful currants or sultanas (sulphur free or you bloat. Trust me)
• handful chopped dried apricots (still sulphur free)
• a sprinkling of ground nutmeg
• a sprinkling of ground cinnamon
• some seasonal berries and chopped nuts (if you can be bothered)
• some honey, to serve (if you want)

Method:
Combine the rolled oats (that's how they roll... oh yeah...), juice, yoghurt, currants or sultanas, chopped aprictos, nutmeg and cinnamon in a large bowl and stir together. Chill overnight. The next day add the berries and nuts to the top. Eat. Enjoy. Stop reading on the toilet. The end.

One month later

Boys and girls, for this post I'm looking a back a bit. Twelve thousand miles away, this time 4 weeks ago, I was getting ready to start my adventures Down Under. I had successfully navigated the treacherous waters of Airline Baggage Allowance and was through Passport Control. I was halfway through my first box of Kleenex, and only a couple of hours into a journey that totalled 27 hours of my life.  I was heading into the unknown, with a quiver of my lip, and a bag stuffed with Percy Pigs.

OMG, to use a TLA (that's Three Letter Abbreviation, to those not in the know).

Yes, this time just a month ago, I had yet to be violated by a masseuse in Singapore Airport. I had yet to experience the living nightmare that is jet-lag on an epic scale. I had yet to find a job, support, friends, or a good place to ogle men. (Please note; that list is not in order of importance...)

Looking back - and believe me, I'm aware I still have a way to go yet, before I'm as settled here as I'd like - I can't believe how fast that time has gone. And I'm so grateful for that.

This month has been without a doubt, the hardest of my life. And I include in that: my parent's divorce, my dad refusing to buy me the first pair of shoes I ever fell in love with (gold kitten-heeled ankle boots, with a blotted-red-paint effect... Dad, looking back you were doing me a kindness. They were HIDEOUS), the various break-ups and lows of my love life (which could be a blog in itself), my childhood pet passing away, and the discovery that chocolate was not a low-fat food (which, in truth, I've never fully gotten over).

No, it's been hard. But it's finally - finally - starting to get so much better.

Sydney is not be my city yet, and may never be - London will always be my home, of that I'm sure - but this strange upside place could be a damned good alternative for a while.

So what has this first month taught me? That wherever I am, my friends and family are always in my heart (I'm sorry, it sounds corny but it's true) - and thankfully, seemingly, I'm always in theirs too. That however much I complained about it, whenever I get homesick, I miss the smell and pollution of London (and yes, even the tube at rush hour). That 12,000 miles doesn't seem like far when there's skype, email, the phone, and people you care about. That care packages from home are - officially - the best thing EVER and are to be encouraged at all times (I would hate for any of my readers to think that that's a hint. Belle de Sydney would never stoop that low... Ok, maybe she would...) That determination and a glass of Pinot Noir are two of the most powerful weapons the newly-emigrated can have, with a special emphasis on the former. And finally, that ogling a hot man in a wetsuit makes every situation feel a whole let better.

There are actual adventures which I need to share with you all (coming soon), but I wanted to use writing this post to do a bit of taking stock. One of the big things I hear when I tell people that I emigrated - a single, 23 year old, used to living with her parents, in her hometown, without a hugely rebellious streak (I mean, I went to Ancient Greek Camp, people. Yes, seriously. I'm a History Major, and liked studying in original translation. A maverick I am not) - is "You're so brave".

At first, whenever I heard this, I shrugged it off. I didn't think of it like that.

6 boxes of Kleenex, twelve thousand miles, 27 hours of travel, and 1 month later - yes, I am brave. I think for the first time in my life, I actually believe that of myself. (I used to run away when we played All-Girls Hockey at school. I cover my eyes when watching scary movies. I don't particularly like the dark. That to me is not brave. However, having just emigrated - I can see that maybe I need to redefine types of bravery...) Because it's tough. You've heard enough of my stories to know that the settling in process thus far has not been hassle-free. But it also - I hope, I think - could be one of the best things I do. (This year, anyway...) Being brave is a big part of doing this. Without that bravery, I'd have been on the first flight home within the first 48 hours of landing (and goodness knows, I've come very close to booking that ticket on several subsequent occasions).

I don't want to sound smug - because I'm not - coming here was the right decision for me. For many people, it wouldn't be. But - variety is the spice of life, we're all different, and my spice happens to include a bit of emigration (I think I've taken that metaphor a bit far now)... Anyway, I thought it was important to give you my thoughts on the process so far. Now that I've shared, rather than continue to expound my remaining emigration philosophy with you, I thought it would be fun for you to see some photos of this past month.

So enjoy!

I present to you: Belle de Sydney in Scenes from the Newly Emigrated...

"Re-packing" at Heathrow. My stepmum did a sterling job of luggage hiding (if, shockingly, you don't understand this reference please click here to read the full, explanatory post)

Feeling very homesick one day, I went for a beach walk with my adopted Aussie dad. As it was cold, and my boxes are still in bloody shipping (don't get me started) I ended up wearing a fluorescent yellow jacket used by his workmen. To keep me company / save my embarasment / help me brazen it out, Aussie Daddy wore the same. Style icons we were not. 

This was at my lowest ebb of homesickness (the smile belies the red, swollen eyes... why do you think i was wearing sunglasses?!)

The first care package arrives! Hurray!

It's real. The Guylian Chocolate cafe, Sydney. Hell yes people.

Seeing this for the first time made me realise that life as I knew it may - just may - turn out ok.

The first commute to work by ferry. (Ok, right now I'm smug).

More adventures coming to an internet connection near you in the very near future.

Until then,

Belle x

Why Dolly Parton was right

Let me start with an apology, gentle reader. I know I have been regrettably and regretfully absent from this blog for a few days, and I want to assure you that it's nothing to do with a lack of commitment or - heaven forefend - a lack of broadband (the latter being a situation so dire, so unimaginable, that I'm not sure I could survive it).

No, the reasons for my absence are twofold : Number 1) Being traumatised by weirdos and admirers (more on that soon), and Number 2) Starting my new job.

Now, moving from London to Sydney was scary on many levels, not least of which was knowing that I was leaving a secure, stable job - for nothing. By which I mean literally nothing: I had no job lined up, no interviews (most companies won't give you a second glance until you've made the commitment and relocated), and no idea what would happen. Ok, yes - the Australian economy is, largely, booming - but still. It was pretty scary. And then what happens? The day after I arrive, I go to an interview. The next week, a second interview. Then followed assessments, psychiatric testing, and a bake-off (just keeping you on your toes there - spot which two are fictional...), and voila! The job was mine. In the (I'd like it to be Chanel) bag.

And so, work has once more begun. And bloody hell - I'd forgotten how tiring it is. How people expect you to do things (yes, ok, they're paying you, but - can they not just be a bit more relaxed? None of this 8 til 6 nonsense, more a kindof 11-3. Or 12-2. With a 2 hour lunch-break. Why not??). Alas, it's been a culture shock, and my brain is once again getting used to early bedtimes, demanding workloads, and a distinct lack of afternoon cake (alas, alas!).

Now, on the flip side - it's really pretty damned good. The people seem nice. The culture involves a fair amount of food and drink, which can never be a bad thing. The commute is done by ferry (ok, and a bus as well, but let's forget that part). Memories of the tube are receding (Londoners : we deserve medals for managing our commute. We are all heroes. And yes, I still count myself as a Londoner). So, I really can't complain. It's a great company, great job and should be great fun. Hurrah!

But, my friends, that is - as I said - only Reason 2 for my delay (the summary of which is: I've been busy, tired and stressed. Sorry). Reason 1 is a different story altogether...

Here in Sydney I have no friends. Or at least, no friends who are not family as well. And I'm a social kind of gal. Being lucky to know some very special people back home, and seeing them regularly, I don't like being so very much dependent on my own company, or that of others who (in the nicest possible way), I'm not that close to. Now, the fam (that's Aussie slang for family - please remember that for future reference) have been very sweet, and I've been venturing out with cousins and their friends, and getting to know a whole new group. This has led to the slightly awkward thing of wanting a Friend Date. As in, "I like you, you seem like a decent human being, let's hang out. And no, I am not romantically interested in you. (Honest)"

With girls, this works a treat as the lack of sexual interest is pretty clear (people, I'm hetero. It's just how it is. I fully respect and believe in people's rights to love how they want, who they want, when they want, and where they want (within reason on the 'where they want' - watching 2 people getting steamy has never really been my thing. Having it thrust - almost literally - in my face just makes me feel "ick")... where was I...?) Oh yes - girls. Girly Dates are great. Some of my favourite London moments are from my Girly Dates, so I'm keen to attempt to replicate that over here (impossible, but if it's even nearly close, then I will, as the old saying goes, be a Happy Bunny).

(Boy) Friend Dates are rather different, however. Saying you have no sexual interest in them doesn't seem to work. Wearing a sign which says "WE ARE NOT HAVING SEX TONIGHT OR EVER" is apparently just a challenge (I speak from experience). Pretending to be interested in same-sex-only relationships is - well, just trust me, it's not the way to go. Do I sound jaded? I guess so. This is because my (boy) Friend Date very recently went sadly awry. Not only did said Boy attempt to seduce me (badly done, it must be sad - discussing how his ex wouldn't cook for him was really not going to get me dropping my knickers anytime soon), but also - and this is possibly even worse than that - using the simply hideous expression, "Far out, man".

Yes. I'm not exaggerating, I'm not lying - I swear. All evening. ALL EVENING. "Far out, man". Personally, I nearly responded with the first letter of "far" and then the replacement of "out" with "uck" followed by "off" then "man", but being a gentle and sweet-natured soul - I naturally, did not. I did, however, make the decision never to see him again. Friendship date fail.

Still, the trauma of this has stayed with me for several days (you try spending an evening with someone who says "Far out, man" and see how you like it) - and until my mental balance was restored, there was no way I could write sensibly. Truth to tell, I'm not sure how sensible this post is - but, if you're entertained and informed, then I'm happy. I hope you can understand the delay in my writing, and I promise you now - more adventures are coming very soon, I promise.

Until then, Boys and Girls, I wish you adieu and goodnight from Sydney.


Love,

Belle de Sydney x

PS And why was Dolly right? Because, to quote that epic song: "Working 9 til 5, what a way to make a living..."

PPS I realise that Reason 1) was weirdos and admirers (plural). Allow me some poetic licence, please.