Making a connection

It’s been too long since I last wrote… but that’s what happens when you don’t have an internet connection.

But I have an excuse – I moved house! Yes, this chick lit novel now has a setting. A brown brick semi-detached house on the top of a hill in north-west London. It’s too small and too far out of town but it’s got big windows and a big backyard and I already love it.

I’ve got flatmates, too. One of my best friends from Australia has already been here four years – she’s the wise Londoner guiding me through this crazy adventure. She organised the place – I’m living with her, her rock star English boyfriend, and HIS single best friend. I KNOW. THIS CHICK LIT NOVEL IS WRITING ITSELF.

So obviously, I’m going to end up with this guy, right? I mean, it’s so predictable. Even more predictable, because I really don’t think I will. You know how in the chick lit novel, the girl doesn’t really like the obvious guy, because she’s infatuated with Mr Wrong? And Mr Obvious is clearly pining for her throughout the novel, but the Chick doesn’t really notice how fabulous he is, until Mr Wrong breaks her heart and Mr Obvious is there for her?

Well, I haven’t found Mr Wrong yet. And I’m pretty sure my poor housemate isn’t pining for me. But if this really WAS a chick lit book, I’m pretty sure that’s how it would end. I’ll keep you posted.

But back to the internet thing. You will never know just how reliant you are on the internet, until you don’t have it. And when you’re living in a new house, in a new suburb, in a new city, in a new country, you need the internet more than ever. Especially when your phone is busted.

Since I arrived in England, my phone has been on the blitz. Things came to a head last week when my Mum texted me to ask if I could Skype. Homesick, and newly depressed about my lack of internet, I sent her a long, detailed message about how crap everything was. AND THEN IT DIDN’T SEND.

It’s funny, when you’re on edge, what little things set you off. Six days of internet cold turkey, and the fact that that simple text wouldn’t go through sent me over the edge. The iPhone was thrown. There was shouting. There were tears. In the midst of my hysterics, as I listed every little thing that was wrong with my life, including my uncomfortable pillow, the fact that I didn’t know what to have for lunch, and that my hair will never do what I want it to, I added, “AND I’ve been here a month and no one’s fallen in love with me!”

After the drama had passed, a list of priorities was made. Number one on the list was getting my phone sorted. Love, I thought, could wait at least one more day. So imagine my surprise one man offered both services later that very day.

Yes, I was cracked on to by the phone repair man.

Ring a ding ding!

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