You guys. It’s been a ROLLER COASTER.
In the last few weeks:
I worked so many consecutive double shifts at the restaurant that I set a new world record. There were celebrations, and free cake.
I replaced ‘regular’ exercise with ‘secret pelvic floor workouts while standing in a restaurant for a record-breaking amount of time’ exercise.
…In unrelated news, I seem to have gotten fatter.
I decided it was all too much and I should move back to Perth.
I decided I was being ridiculous and decided to stay in London forever.
I applied for a job in Perth, decided I was definitely going to get it, and starting packing.
I missed out on the job, cried a lot, and decided to stay in London forever.
My family came to visit and I lived a London summer dream – Boris biking on the Thames, afternoon tea on a rooftop, a Harrods picnic in Hampstead Heath and endless Pimms in the sunshine. I fell in love with London.
…In unrelated news, I seem to have gotten fatter.
I went to Spain and lived a Spanish summer dream – jamon in a cone, swimming in the Mediterranean, paella, jamon on a plate, sangria, Gaudi genius and jamon in a roll. I fell in love with Spain.
…In unrelated news, I seem to have gotten fatter.
My family left and I descended into a tragic, fat, PMS-enhanced depression. I consoled myself by eating all my Aussie chocolate. And all the Shapes.
…In unrelated news, I seem to have gotten fatter.
I asked myself the tough questions. Why am I in London? Do I WANT to be here? Is the pollution, the public transport, the pitiful wage and the long hours worth it? Do I need to be this painfully long distance away from my family and friends?
And I decided. For now, I do.
So. I got myself together. I did some exercise. I applied for some new jobs. I organised some new adventures. I sat in the sunshine. I wrote to you guys.
London, you confusing, terrifying, wonderful city, I’m still here.
Let the chick lit life continue.
