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 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
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
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