A date with Gollum...

Dear reader,

I write to you on the eve of a momentous occasion. For tomorrow, I leave Sydney. (Before you react with shock / devastation, let me assure you - this is just for a brief holiday.)

Yes, tomorrow I venture to Vietnam, to be reunited with my parents, and relaxation (quite whether the two go hand in hand I'm unsure, but lets hope so...). It has now been nearly 7 months since we've been in the same timezone as each other, and I find myself feeling almost nervous at the thought of being back together again. Having grown so used to communicating at a distance, the thought of being back together - for only 8 days - and then being separated again is a pretty difficult one. With luck, I've acclimatised enough to my new life that I'll handle it, but I can't deny that a part of me is worried that I'll just fall apart. Every ex-pat I've spoken to says their first goodbye, be it on home or foreign soil, is the hardest. Well, until you have the second goodbye. Then the third goodbye. Then the fourth... Yes, you get the picture.

In a bid to be pro-active (I am nothing if not zealously organised. I recently tried to book some flights 18 months in advance and was told that the airlines only release them a maximum of 355 days ahead. Apparently, most "normal" people don't think as far ahead as me... How can these people leave things so last minute?! 355 days ahead is simply not enough suitcase-preparation time... Am I right?) - but where was I?

Oh yes - so - in a bid to be pro-active about my possible future anguish / breakdown (although this may equally occur at having to go back into the real world, and work, rather than the leaving of my parents...) I came up with a list of things that could make me feel better.

In no particular order, they were:

• Ryan Gosling (have you seen "Crazy Stupid Love"?!)
• Ryan Gosling (as above)
• Ryan Gosling (no, I'm still not off that train of thought yet)
• Chocolate (as a poor, but just about acceptable RG substitute)

But then, gentle reader, before I could action any of the above (not that that would involve the casual drugging / kidnapping of RG... of course not...) - the unthinkable happened. 

I went to my hairdresser for a trim, and came out with a head of hair that looks like it has been mangled by a deranged sheep shearer. Seriously. My fringe sits an inch above my eyebrows. I have random bits of hair that are not the same length as others. And due to my frequent head-rubbing (apparently this increases blood flow to the follicles, and stimulates hair growth) I also have the kind of bed-head last seen on a caveman. This is not good, gentle reader. My hair is - or was - my crowning glory. Now it's the hair equivalent of a sh*t sandwich. And no sauce / hair magic in the world can disguise that.

The only flip side - and it is the only flip side - is that this has entirely distracted me from all thoughts of sadness re the parents. What are parents, when compared to a bad haircut?! Ok, I joke (ish) - but hair trauma is an amazing distraction. 

And so, incidentally, is a bad date. Or rather, the opportunity for one. You see, this evening, after a busy day of packing and organising, I went into my local take-away to grab some dinner (complete with a paperbag over my head, obviously. I cannot be seen by my adoring public with hair like this!), and had my "chef" (I'm sorry, I don't count a take-away place as having "chefs") smile at me, and then - with a thick Israeli accent, tell me "Zooooo... you like ze lamb viz ze hot sauce, yes? Maybe you like your man like you like your schwarma... hot, viv extra pickles? Yes? Yes?"

Reader. Gentle reader. He looked like Gollum on a bad day. If the choice is him, or a nunnery, I choose the nunnery. If the choice is him or an ork, it would be a tough one (where all these Lord of the Rings references are coming from I don't know). Clearly, this was not a happy moment for me. And thus, my answer - the only answer it could be - was a firm, hesitation-free "no". 

My friends, I may have the kind of hair that requires emergency attention. I may - for now - still not be Mrs Gosling. And I may be attracting the kind of guy previously seen in Mordor, looking for the ring, the one ring, to bind them all... But I also have the prospect of family. And a holiday. And I'm sure that however upsetting the prospect of saying goodbye to my parents is, the reward of seeing them is more than worth it.

I'll write again soon. 

Until then...

With love,

Belle x

Confessions of an Accidental Flasher

Boys and girls,

It has been a momentous time in the House of Belle since last I wrote to you. For one thing, there has been the discovery of a magical new shampoo, which helps enormously with the ridiculous Sydney humidity, transforming me from this:



* Please note: picture above may not be accurate representation of Belle


to this:

There has also been the excitement of discovering an almost too good to be true product which, if sprayed generally on any surface, kills the insects which come into contact with it (following on from the recent cockroach incidents I've endured, I have been genuinely considering spraying this over my person as a whole, but have - for now - decided that this may not be a healthy way forward. Watch this space)...

But, more than any of that, has been the all new experience of house hunting. Since coming to this sunny and humid land, I've been staying with (until now unknown) Australian family, and much as they have been very kind and generous hosts - the happy prospect of independence is beckoning me, with it's well manicured finger of independence...

In the month of my absence from this blog (I am sorry!), which I realise has been a dark and empty time for each of you, bereft of my presence, I have spent days and evenings trawling the internet, attempting to find a flat and a housemate that would meet my exacting standards. 

My criteria, were as follows:

• Must love cake, enough to enjoy mine, but not so much that they would steal baked goods from me (I am Princess Cakeface after all, and couldn't live in a home where my cake was under threat)
• Must not have a pet bird (remember my fear of birds?)
• Must be a nice human being in general

Now, initially I thought this would not be such a big ask. I mean, really - how complicated could it be? 

Apparently, however, other than having a pulse (my base criteria) everything else was going to be a bit of a struggle. I saw flats which looked like something out of Guantanamo (I imagine), met people who absolutely resembled the strangers my mother used to warn me about as a child, and saw interior decor that would not look out of place in the 80s. Oh dear. Avocado green bathroom suites are enough to bring me out in a cold sweat. Yikes.

Days and weeks of this continued, until - suddenly - one day I found somewhere. The Place. The Flatmate. The One. (At this point, I am oddly tempted to go into a Lord of the Rings / One Ring to Bind Them All... soliloquy, but I won't...). But seriously. The perfect flat, with the perfect flatmate. Honestly, I nearly fell over with shock. In fact, several days later (now) I still feel like falling over. Finding a property in Sydney is kind of like winning the lottery, only then instead of getting any money, you have to watch as all of yours disappears. 

So - my friends! Independence, with her shellac-ed nails beckons me forward. I shall move from the HoSF (House of Stir Fry... the "rellies" I live with eat A LOT of stir fry. Indeed, I may be turning into a stir fry, such are the enormous quanitites of they stuff I've consumed since staying there) on the 10th March. Independence (and the prospect of a more varied diet) is mine!

But alas - I've neglected the true story here. The story behind the story. The true confession.

You see, the evening I found out about my new residence-to-be, I went for a celebration dinner and drinks with a very lovely girlfriend. However - our special skill (were it to be requested) is the ability to get each other as hyper as 3 year olds with a barrelfull of sugar. As our meal wore on, and our mutual excitement elevated (she is also moving from living with her family, so it was a joint celebration) I suddenly realised - as you do - that I was wearing a rather pretty new brassiere (as I will primly call it) and camisole, which was at that point hidden from view... I would like to emphasise that normally I do hide my lingerie from public consumption / viewing. This, however, was different. One glass of wine plus chocolate cake plus the company of Sylv, had rather altered my decision making process. So, with no preamble at all, whilst in full view of the entire restaurant, I giggled loudly, and pulled my top forwards so that not just Sylvie, but the dining public as a whole had an unencumbered view of my decolletage and lingerie (which had been the original point of my flashing). The waiter, who was on the point of pouring me a second glass of wine (not that I really needed it... And yes - all of this had happened on just the one glass) stood stock still, frozen (with admiration, obviously). Cool and together - for all of 5 seconds - I turned to him, smiled and without missing a beat said "And that's your tip for the night". With that, I pulled my top back into place, and with that - my evening continued as normally as it possibly could, after an incident like that.

Gentle reader - I have not yet been arrested for public indecency. Although I can confess that making a concerted effort to keep my cleavage under wraps is harder than it should be. I will keep you abreast (oo-er) of my flashing "issues".

Until next time...

Love,

Belle x