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It's hard to say goodbye to London – even if the cat doesn't care It's hard to say goodbye to London – even if the cat doesn't care
(4 months later)
Last week, I lived in London. Today, I’m on the Last week, I lived in London. Today, I’m on the other side of the world sitting in a cafe surrounded by tanned Sydney locals with their dogs so relaxed at their heels they don’t need leads and everyone’s impossibly good looking and the coffee is drinkable rather than tolerable. Something’s not quite right with this picture.
other side of the world sitting in a cafe surrounded by tanned Sydney locals My body hasn’t adjusted properly to the time difference. It still aches for the breaking of a new day somewhere else. There are occasional, gripping pangs of sadness. I think this might be homesickness. I feel like I’m sitting outside a bubble, to be exact. I know I'm home, but I feel like I’m looking in at you all. As if I’m on the Gold Coast at the Big Brother house and looking in on housemates from behind the glass. It's a weird, slightly pervy, hovering sensation. I’ve been told this feeling fades away. Just like many ex-Big Brother housemates do, eventually.
with their dogs so relaxed at their heels they don’t need leads and everyone’s impossibly On my last day in London I took a final run around the neighbourhood to say my goodbyes. It’s best to get some activity in before sitting on a plane for a solid 24 hours, where you do nothing but sleep, watch movies and have food brought to you (translation: I will get through the horror that is the 24-hour long haul by deluding myself that an old guy I’ve never met hasn’t really fallen asleep on my shoulder and that I don’t really want to run down the aisle screaming to get me off this unreliable cigar in the sky that’s full of bad smells and people deluding themselves that this is all perfectly normal).
good looking and the coffee is drinkable rather than I ran past my little old local pub. This was the place I often sought comfort when overwhelmed by this whole "starting a new life somewhere else" caper. Sitting in a centuries-old building with it's cosy, low roof, I felt safe in the knowledge that for hundreds of years before me people had gathered in exactly the same place, to do exactly what I was doing; to drink and think and do not much else until it all blows over. Old English pubs are testament to the fact that everything goes on, regardless of most difficulties. They don’t change. There's some solace to be found in that.
tolerable. Something’s not quite right with this picture. I ran past my corner store where I’d go every day to buy the newspaper and pat their cat Lilly, a lovely proud girl that sat in the same spot every day so she could keep her eye on the cans of catfood on the opposite shelf. She put up with my excessive affection. Some days I felt so far away from my loved ones, a little scratch on Lilly’s head saved me from completely falling apart. She never really acknowledged me, merely tolerated me. As cats do.
My body hasn’t adjusted properly to the time To be honest, my final lap around my old home base felt a bit like a breakup. Even though I'd mostly had a wonderful time.
difference. It still aches for the breaking of a new day somewhere else. There When I left Australia I knew I would always be attached, regardless of the distance. There was no goodbye. Home will always be home. My family and friends will hold a place for me at the Christmas dinner table. Leaving my newly adopted home, however, one whose charms I fell for, I can’t be sure that I’ll ever feel as close to it again as I do now, giggling at its in jokes, learning all its secrets. Once I leave, there's nothing to tie me to London other than my memory.
are occasional, gripping pangs of sadness. I think this might be homesickness. When I return I will be a visitor again, rather than a local. But I'm proud to say I was a local once. Just ask Lilly. Pity she can’t wait to see the back of me.
I feel like I’m sitting outside a bubble, to be exact. I know I'm home, but I
feel like I’m looking in at you all. As if I’m on the Gold Coast at the Big
Brother house and looking in on housemates from behind the glass. It's a
weird, slightly pervy, hovering sensation. I’ve been told this feeling fades away.
Just like many ex-Big Brother housemates do, eventually.
On my last day in London I took a final run around
the neighbourhood to say my goodbyes. It’s best to get some activity in before
sitting on a plane for a solid 24 hours, where you do nothing but sleep, watch
movies and have food brought to you (translation: I will get through the horror that is
the 24-hour long haul by deluding myself that an old guy I’ve never met hasn’t
really fallen asleep on my shoulder and that I don’t really want to run down
the aisle screaming to get me off this unreliable cigar in the sky that’s full
of bad smells and people deluding themselves that this is all perfectly normal).
I ran past my little old local pub. This was
the place I often sought comfort when overwhelmed by this whole "starting
a new life somewhere else" caper. Sitting in a centuries-old building with
it's cosy, low roof, I felt safe in the knowledge that for hundreds of years
before me people had gathered in exactly the same place, to do exactly what I
was doing; to drink and think and do not much else until it all blows over. Old
English pubs are testament to the fact that everything goes on, regardless of
most difficulties. They don’t change. There's some solace to be found in that.
I ran past my corner store where I’d go every
day to buy the newspaper and pat their cat Lilly, a lovely proud girl that sat
in the same spot every day so she could keep her eye on the cans of catfood on
the opposite shelf. She put up with my excessive affection. Some days I felt
so far away from my loved ones, a little scratch on Lilly’s head saved me from
completely falling apart. She never really acknowledged me, merely tolerated
me. As cats do.
To be honest, my final lap around my old home
base felt a bit like a breakup. Even though I'd mostly had a wonderful time.
When I left Australia I knew I would always be
attached, regardless of the distance. There was no goodbye. Home will always be
home. My family and friends will hold a place for me at the Christmas dinner
table. Leaving my newly adopted home, however, one whose charms I fell for,
I can’t be sure that I’ll ever feel as close to it again as I do now, giggling at
its in jokes, learning all its secrets. Once I leave, there's nothing to tie me
to London other than my memory.
When I return I will be a visitor again, rather than a local. But
I'm proud to say I was a local once. Just ask Lilly. Pity she can’t
wait to see the back of me.