It’s raining. Men.

The weather has turned. And my sunny Australian optimism is slowly turning a little grey, too.

I’d been warned about the London winter. Former Londoners had gleefully described it as ‘hell on earth’, ‘soul destroying’ and ‘the single most awful thing you will ever experience’. I laughed. I had my heart broken last year, remember? A little cold weather is hardly likely to get me down!

But you know what? Those smug ex-Londoners were right. IT’S BLOODY COLD. The sky is actually grey. There’s so much water in the air, my hair tuns to frizz the second I walk out the door. The other day it was so face-freezingly cold, I wore two coats, and a scarf wrapped around my nose. It never, never stops raining. And you know what the worst thing is? It’s October. IT’S NOT EVEN WINTER YET.

It’s a source of constant amusement to my cocky, acclimatised housemates. They sit in t-shirts and shorts, laughing at me as I wrap myself from head to toe in a cocoon of blankets just to watch the telly. Forget the Heathrow Injection (that layer of fat all Aussies get when they move to curry-loving London), I’m looking bulky enough thanks to the three or four jumpers I’m wearing at any given time!

Which is surely not going to be a great look when it comes to meeting my Mr Right. Unless he has a thing for thermal-wear?

So far, I still haven’t found him. But I have encountered a WHOLE HOST of Mr Wrongs. I don’t know if it’s an English thing, but I have met some hilariously rude and inappropriate men since I landed in this wonderful city. Some highlights:

Mr Racist: A very proper British chap who I met at a volunteering gig. He was the epitome of politeness, until he gave me the hot tip, “If you ever date a black person, don’t worry about being on time. They never turn up to anything when they’re supposed to.” Charming.

Mr Aggressive: A man I sat next to at a dinner, who didn’t talk to me ALL night. Until very late, when he turned around and barked, “Are you single?” When I said yes, he told me it was probably because I was a terrible girlfriend. He then told me, “well, I would give you my number, but my phone is broken”. What. A. Shame.

Mr Literal: A guy who wore a t-shirt with ‘C*NT’ stamped across it. A bit too honest with the advertising, perhaps?

Mr Snob: A young, rich, unemployed toff. When I told him I was keeping myself really busy with lots of social events, he confidently replied, “Well, they will definitely dry up”. Cheers.

Mr Druggie: A man who, when listing his attributes, included, “do you like coke? Because my brother is the biggest coke dealer in Essex”. No. No, I don’t.

Mr Offensive: A man, who over the course of one evening, told me my accent was “terrible”, that he had two girlfriends, and I that I looked about 36. I am appalled and embarrassed to say this guy’s charms kind of worked on me. I blame Bridget Jones. And tequila.

Or maybe it’s just the cold? Could the freezing temperatures be messing with my head, as well as my hair? Yes. I’ll blame that.

Seeing double

As you get older, it’s a fact that more and more people around you get coupled up. Scrolling through Facebook, you find that one of your few remaining single pals is now ‘in a relationship’. Your ‘in a relationship’ friends have suddenly changed their status to ‘engaged’. Just today, I saw a that a boy I went to primary school with, who I once asked to marry me (he said no, because he wanted to marry his cousin. The rejection!) is HAVING A BABY. Not with his cousin mind you, but shocking all the same. I knew him when he was five years old, and now he’s having a child!

It’s a good thing. I am really happy that everyone is finding happiness, blah blah blah. But sometimes, all this ‘coupleness’ can make you feel very, very single.

When I moved to London, part of my decision was to get away from Couple Land. Don’t get me wrong – I really, really love my married friends. But I know I’m not going to meet MY Mr Right, playing Scrabble and drinking wine with my grown-up buddies as they stay in on a Friday night. I thought London might be an escape from that – a chance to meet up with a different crowd, hang out with some fun single people, flirt, hook up, and all that jazz.

But as I put together my guest list for my birthday celebrations on Saturday night, I realised the location may have changed, but the situation is much the same. Just about EVERYONE I know here is in a serious relationship. Of a group of ten people invited to drink margaritas with me for my birthday, just two other guests were single.

Depressing, but I’m not alone, right? There were two others sharing my plight! Three out of ten – that’s almost a third! Safe in that statistical justification I put on my prettiest dress, threw on some hot pink lipstick and prepared to have a wonderful night, reveling in my single (and totally normal) fabulousness.

Yep, those other two singles? They totally hooked up.

Almost 30

Tomorrow I turn 29.

Firstly, I have no idea how this happened. I swear to you, it was just yesterday I was drinking champagne at my 21st, celebrating my youth and fabulousness, with my whole exciting life ahead of me. Now, suddenly and seemingly without any warning, I’m staring straight down the barrel of my thirties. MY THIRTIES. Guys, I remember my Mum’s 30th. Mums are 30. Not me.

And let’s face it, my life on paper at 29 isn’t looking that great. If you’d asked 21 year old Claire what she thought her life would be like as she neared 30, she probably wouldn’t have gone for single. Or unemployed. Or prone to blogging on a Monday afternoon in her pyjama pants.

But this is how it is. It’s not perfect, it’s not the dream scenario. But you know what? Things really are OK. So in honour of my 29th birthday, here’s a list of five things I’m really happy about after almost 30 years on the planet.

1. I’m looking good.

No, not just good – the best I’ve ever looked. Sure, I’ve found a couple of sneaky grey hairs, and all the London cake-eating is making my pants a little tight. But after 29 years, I’ve finally found my style. I know what clothes look good on me – I’m not trying to be anyone else. I am more confident in my skin than I’ve ever been before. And you know what? People notice that. I’ve got more compliments about my looks in the last year than I’ve ever had before. And it’s nice.

2. I can cook.

I really, really enjoy cooking. And after almost three decades in the kitchen, I’m getting pretty good at it. I love feeding other people food that I have made. Or myself a whole batch of brownies just because I feel like it. When I’m in the kitchen, I’m really happy.

3. I’m getting better at navigation.

I’ve always been hopeless at finding my way around. On one tragic day, when I was in my early twenties, I couldn’t find my way home from the shops after buying some ingredients for lunch. The combination of extreme hunger and total and utter displacement resulted in some truly pathetic public crying. But these days I’m getting better. Sure, the GPS is helping. But I finally have faith in the fact that I really might know where I’m going.

4. I am unapologetic about my love of musical theatre.

It used to be a guilty secret. When someone asked me who my favourite singer was, I’d defect and ask them who they liked. “Madonna? Oh yeah, me too.” But now, I am past the age of apologising for my camp and questionable taste. If someone wants to get to know me, they will also have to get to know obscure facts about little-known Broadway shows. I am a musical theatre nerd. And I am proud.

5. I am braver than I’ve ever been before.

In the last five years, the number of new foods I’ve tried has gone through the roof. I now eat prawns. And mushrooms. And falafel. Just this week I ate a mussel. And I didn’t die. Two months ago I resigned from my awesome, stable, secure job because I knew I needed a change. And ever braver than that, I got on a plane to a city where I’d never lived before, thousands of kilometres away from the family and friends that I love, and the safe and secure life that I knew. For me, that was pretty bloody brave.

Yes, I’m unemployed. Yes, I’m single. Yes, I’m almost 30.

But I think I’m going to be OK.

This should come with a health warning

I awoke from the kind of deep sleep that only seven margaritas can ensure. Head pounding and mouth dry, I forced one eye open as I reached out desperately for a glass of water. Suddenly, I jumped. Was that a spider on the pillow beside me? No, just the set of false eyelashes I had carefully glued on just twelve hours earlier, but evidently decided were too hard to remove when I staggered in to bed at 4am. As the memories of the night before came flooding back (did I really slow dance with a guy who looked like first-year Ron Weasley? Did I really just laugh and dance on when someone vomited on my foot?) and the hangover well and truly kicked in, I was struck by a worrying thought – this chick lit experiment might not be so good for my health.

To be honest. it’s a thought that’s been growing for a while. When faced with any decision, I find myself asking, ‘What would Bridget Jones do?’. Should I have that extra drink? Of course. Should I eat that entire cake? Absolutely! Should I flirt with that rude, arrogant man? For sure! It’s the only way to get Mr Darcy in the end!

The problem is, I can justify just about anything if I think it’ll make good material for the blog. Which is why my weekend was lost to several bottles of wine, a generous helping of tequila, a bag of lollies and the drunken abuse of a taxi driver who let another girl into his cab, AFTER I HAILED IT.

Bridget made it seem glamorous. But can this much eating, drinking and flirting really end in anything but obesity, alcoholism and cold sores?

Only one way to find out…

Dateless, jobless

I don’t have a job. I need one.

The funny thing is, unemployment is pretty fab. I worked bloody hard at home, and never thought I’d last this long (three weeks and counting) in the land of unemployment without going insane. But it’s great! I suddenly have time for all the little things that used to fall by the wayside. Teeth flossing – check! And not just a guilty once-a-month rush job, either. I’ve been doing it every day! Leisurely strolls – check! I am slowly but surely figuring out the confusion that is the streets of London, and getting a little bit less lost every day. Lunchtime wine-drinking – check, check check! I’m blogging under the influence right now – just one mind you – but enough to get the creative juices flowing!

But that’s the rub, isn’t it? The wine fund will eventually run out. And that’s where the need for a job comes back in.

Job hunting is a pretty miserable task. Everything that looks good, you don’t meet the selection criteria. Seriously, some of these agencies want you to speak three languages, have ten years’ experience in origami and be able to whip up a croquembouche in half an hour – all to work as a PA for some shitty company at five bucks an hour.

As I write more and more applications, squeezing in as many buzz-words as I can, the urge is growing to be completely, devastatingly honest. To sell what I can REALLY do as opposed to what they want me to say. What do you reckon they’d make of this?

To whom it may concern,

Just throw those other applications away. I am the girl for the job!

My skills are set out as follows:

I have an excellent memory. I can tell you the name of every celebrity baby born between 1996 and today, including the obscure ones like Louis Bardo and Carys Zeta.

I have a great attention to detail. I can tell you EVERYTHING that annoyed me about the girl I used to work with, including how many times she wore that jacket that I bitched about, but secretly wanted.

I always complete the task at hand. I also always complete the bag of lollies IN my hand, even when it tries to scare me off by claiming it’s ‘family sized’. I am committed!

I am a hard worker. Unless you tell me to run. I really hate running.

I promise to turn up to work, on time, every day, and limit my Facebooking to just once an hour – that’s good right? I will probably bitch about my job to my friends, but let’s be honest  – everyone does.

Just give me an interview. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.

Cheers,

Claire

Foot & mouth

I’ve been here just over a week now, and I’m really starting to feel the London love. It could be the sunny weather and the centuries-old architecture. It could be the adorable little girls with English accents I hear singing on the tube. Well, all of those things are playing a part. But the main reason I’m starting to feel happy here, is my feet.

Before I arrived, I fantasised about the stylish outfits I’d wear while swanning around London. I’d stop double-decker buses in their tracks! My more sensible friends warned me that style wouldn’t cut it. Shoes, they told me, had to be flat and practical. So, I took their advice on board. I bought the most gorgeous, sequined flats you’ve ever seen, and a cute pair of sandals for all the picnics and garden parties I’d be immediately invited to. I was London ready!

Well, they lasted two days. Two days before my feet were in absolute agony. Gorgeous sequined flats do look wonderful, but it turns out they’re not cut out for long walks to the tube, seven flights of stairs down to the platform, seven flights of stairs back up, and then the walk to wherever you’re going. And cute little sandals offer little support as you wander aimlessly around London, wondering where the hell Buckingham Palace is, but refusing to consult the map, in case anyone realises you’re lost.

So this week, practicality won. I sucked up the little dignity I had left, waved farewell to my fashionable ideals, and bought myself some sneakers. Pink, of course. They break every style-rule I’ve ever adhered to and make me look like an awkward 14 year old girl, but my god, they are comfortable. Like pillows for my feet!

So I was taking the tube home tonight, enjoying my well-supported feet and generally feeling pretty good about things. Standing in front of me were a couple, holding hands and smiling at each other. Lovely, I thought. The man – let’s call him Beardie – leaned in for a kiss. The woman – let’s called her Blondie – gave him a quick peck and laughed. I swooned. Romance! On the Underground!

But then, it started to get weird. Beardie kissed Blondie on the cheek. Then, he kissed her on the eyelids. Weirdo! Then, and I am not kidding you here, he started to lick her face. That’s right. HE LICKED HER FACE. ON THE TUBE.

I was appalled. But like a car crash, I could not look away. When Beardie began sucking on Blondie’s nose, I started to wonder if he was going to eat her face right off. I mean, there’s public displays of affection, but a public display of cannibalism? That’s surely not OK!

When he started chewing on her jumper, I began laughing out loud. And here’s what I learned on the tube tonight – licking your girlfriend’s face? Acceptable Underground behaviour. Laughing out loud while standing by yourself? Crazy, apparently.

And if public face-licking is some weird British dating custom, book me a flight home, stat! At least I’ve got comfy shoes for the trip.

A novel idea

I’ve always identified with the main girl in the chick lit novel – but I guess that’s the point, isn’t it? She’s always a little bit insecure, unlucky in love, unconvinced about her appearance and prone to emotional chocolate binges. An every-woman, I guess.

She’s also usually a writer – most often, she works for a chic women’s magazine, but very occasionally, she’s a journalist. Just like me!

When I decided to move to London, the chick lit coincidences seemed clearer than ever, and this blog was born. It’s a bit of a scary concept – who knows what the next year of my life will bring? And, will any of it be interesting enough to share with the world?

But the first day totally went to plan. Wearing a floaty dress and stylish sunnies I strolled down gorgeous, flowering London streets, finding a cute little pub across from a park and setting myself up with a salad, a gin and tonic, a great view and my iPad. Searching for jobs and feeling fabulous, I drew the attention of the barman. A charming, friendly guy who offered advice on where to live, filled me in on his travel adventures and engaged in some mild flirting. Perfect! Perhaps not the one I’ll end up with at the end of the book, but definitely a great supporting player – and one with the potential to give me free drinks!

So far, so good. I was just starting to think this really could be a chick lit life, when a headline this morning took my breath away. Flicking through a magazine, I stumbled across the article, ‘Has the Gap-Year Killer Struck Again?’

Crap… I hope I’m in the right novel.

Flying solo

It’s easy to spot the single girl at the airport – she’s the one wheeling all her luggage into the toilet cubicle with her.

Traveling solo is no easy feat. First, there’s the tear-soaked family farewell, before taking a deep breath, hoping like mad you haven’t forgotten your hair straightener – or your passport – and walking off, alone, through the international departure gate. Then it’s just the simple task of sitting in a tiny seat for the next 20-plus, hours, watching back to back crappy rom-coms (yes, New Year’s Eve did suck just as much as I’d hoped) and praying desperately the girl sitting next to you might get up for a pee soon, so you can go too.

Needless to say, it was an economy ticket. I dream of one day being told I’ve been upgraded to business. Imagine, spending the whole trip being waited on, sipping champagne and lying down flat for a sleep! Hobnobbing with celebs and smirking at the cattle class passengers as they walk past! Friends have told me it’s happened to them. Even my beautician back in Perth had a story of a kind lady at the check-in counter granting her an upgrade. But how do you make it happen? The only thing everyone seems to be sure of is that you can’t wear jeans. No denim, instant upgrade. Bull, I reckon. I’ve made the less-than practical choice to wear dresses for all my recent trips, smiled winningly at the check-in chick, and been rewarded with diddly squat.

Which brings me to my prevailing thought of the trip – it is impossible to look good for a long-haul flight. Well, impossible for me, at least. I got on that first plane with my hair straight, some makeup on, even a funky little scarf to brighten up my outfit. Twelve hours later, with the first leg done, my skin was flaking off my face, my hair was defying gravity and the scarf was abandoned in the wake of alternatively searing and freezing temperatures – though my outfit was dressed up by a nice smear of something that the flight attendant assured me was scrambled eggs.

As everyone knows, it’s at this point, when you’re looking your absolute worst, that you run in to someone you know. Usually someone you’re desperate to impress. In this case, a popular girl from my high school, who I hadn’t seen for more than a decade. She looked great, of course. As I self consciously tried to smooth my hair and cover my dress, I grinned like an idiot and talked loudly to try and distract her from my state of appearance. Only later, in the toilets at Dubai, did I realise I’d had a massive bit of food between my teeth the whole time. Awesome.

Seven hours and another three rom-coms later, I finally started the descent into London. The descent into the unknown, really. No job, no family, no idea what’s coming next. I was hit by delirious, exhausted panic, wondering what the hell I was doing and wondering why my hair had gone from sticking up, to being plastered to my face.

But I’m here. Jet lagged, scared, and just a little bit excited. The Spice Girls sang last night. The sun is shining (though I hear it might rain later) and cute British children are playing in the park across from where I sit.

Let the adventure begin.

Prologue

I’m not the world’s most adventurous person. I don’t have a tattoo and I’d never jump out of a plane. Let’s face it – I haven’t even tried tuna (it smells bad, OK?).

So when I decided I was going to quit my awesome, stable job and move to London for a year, people were surprised. Perhaps me most of all.

But the fact was, I needed a change. Last year sucked. I had my heart broken and found myself morphing into some sort of sad couch potato, watching hours upon hours of Gossip Girl and eating sliced cheese for dinner. I was so busy feeling sorry for myself it took me months to realise I’d been handed an opportunity. No one to tie me down, no one to tell me what to do. No one to consult if I wanted to pack up my pink shoes and have my very own adventure.

So now I’m taking charge. I’ve got a ticket booked and my passport ready. It’s the stupidest, craziest thing in the world but I’m going to do it. Even if it’s awful. Even if I end up starving, lonely and crying myself to sleep in sub-zero British temperatures.

It’s like the start of every good chick lit book I’ve read. Heartbroken girl off on a scary and exciting new adventure. Will I meet a host of zany characters? Probably. Will I embarrass myself in dozens of awkward ways? Absolutely. Will I meet the man of my dreams??

You never know… I might even try tuna.