Craving and Breaking Routine

One month down, so many glorious ones to go!

Now that I have settled back into routine, i.e.

• working 8:30am-6pm Mon-Fri, making daily visits to the glorious Sainsbury's superstore across the road, packing lunches that fail to alter from the brown rice/vegetables/tuna combination, making time for exercise and dreaming back to the time I had access to weights, watching some top quality British television before showering and going to bed,

it is really only differences or factors that alter this weekly routine that become "news." For example, London had particularly miserable weather on Thursday and Friday last week that had me sprinting for my ugg boots as soon as I walked through the door. This news, ladies and gentlemen, is boring and definitely not blog-worthy.

Generally, you can't rely on anything extraordinary happening during the week so a popular fall back option is to talk about weekends. Glorious times where you can break free from routine and actually embrace all that life has to offer. For all good small talking purposes, it is common knowledge that you're much more likely to get anywhere talking to a person by enquiring about their weekend activities as opposed to what time they went to bed last night. A lesson learned quickly by aspiring personal trainers, hey Matty F?

I have now learned that while you're still building your social network in a new city, it is a good idea to plan to go away on the weekend. Otherwise, you may find yourself in a position where you have to tell your whole blog audience that your weekend didn't get much more interesting than the amazing toasted cheese sandwich from the Kappacasein Dairy stall at the Borough Markets followed by a chocolate brownie claimed to be the "best in the universe" (yes, it was pretty darn good). For those people who get less excited over food, perhaps hearing how I scrubbed my new bedroom from head to toe and found a home for all of my belongings will interest you more. Or maybe the thought of basking in sunshine on the Clapham Common with every other pasty resident in the area will be more your cup of tea. Or even hearing about how many copious cups of tea I consumed.

However, while talking about experiences in exotic cities would make a more interesting read I'm sure, I wouldn't give up the Skype calls I had to loved ones back home, nor the excitement of exploring strips of cafes in Clapham Junction including Jamie Oliver's Recipease, waking up hangover-free or simply putting on a pair of shorts for the first time since moving. Sometimes it really is the small things you can't do during the working week that give you a thrill, particularly in a new city. Besides, weekends such as these give you plenty of time to plan future weekends away to write-home-about locations...

Stay tuned, blog-readers. I'm working on it. In the meantime, treat yourself to a toasted sandwich. Just say YES.

Love, Em xxx

Establishment and Initiation

Three weeks in and things have come together.

Today marked the first day of a new job. Here, I will be working as an administrator for a property firm in south west London despite the interviewer's disappointed exclamations of "why, but you have too much personality for administration!" I have decided not to take this personally and have gratefully accepted employment. I must say, it is NICE to have some sort of purpose again! Having made work the highest priority in my life over the past 12 months right up until the point of leaving Australia, it was a rude shock to the system to suddenly go cold turkey as soon as I landed on London's doorstep.

The day went off to an interesting start. By way of background, a couple of days ago I extended my time at the temporary place of accommodation. As a result however, I was required to change rooms. No more broomstick cupboard but on the flipside, it did mean moving in a larger room to share with someone else. Unfortunately my new roomie is not a fan of the early morning starts and as such (being sensitive to her sleeping requirements) it did mean having to get dressed for work in the dark. I left the room only to discover that my blouse was on inside out.

Dress malfunctions aside, today I learned that:

• Property firms smell a lot nicer than gyms.
• Drinking soft drinks is generally more acceptable and common than snacking on cans of tuna for protein fixes.
• It is uncommon to answer the phone and immediately provide your name in the UK.
• Sales techniques transfer from health and fitness to property industries.
• There is no way in a million years that I will ever be able to afford property in the general London vicinity. Ever.

Good thing that I've also signed the contract for my new flat in Clapham, then! Nothing quite prepares you for the moment in your life of signing a rental contract. Three contracts, to be exact, all to be initialed on every page acknowledging a form of long-term commitment. A terrifying ordeal that left me pondering why it was that after 16 consecutive years within the education system, I still felt completely clueless about "growing up."

As of tomorrow though, I will be living in merry old Clapham which I only discovered yesterday claims to have the best gelateria in London. A sign from the heavens above, Jamila/Naomi/Hailey? I think it is more than a coincidence! More importantly to readers this means that I now have a delivery address for you to send all of your love letters and care packages to. Tim Tams, Vegemite, lingerie laundry bags and microwaveable Tupperware containers will all be much appreciated.

I will be sharing with two boys, both of which seem lovely. There is a good chance that one thinks I'm slightly dim for the delayed responses I give to his questions... deciphering the Scottish accent takes a considerable few seconds longer than usual. The other will now believe me to be an absolute disgrace after my performance at a house party over the weekend. Ohhh dear...

*Disclaimer. No family member is to read past this point. I intend to forever remain remembered as the golden child of the family.

I suppose a proper initiation into a new environment isn't finalised until you wake up in the morning and instantly wish that the world would swallow you up, or that there was some discrete way of jumping out a window and hope that nobody from the night before will remember what you looked like. Alas, facing the harsh reality was inevitable and I was forced to face the fact that I spent the last moments of the house party night with my head in a kitchen sink. All self-respect was lost when the genuinely lovely girls and charming guy I had spent most of the night with were holding my hair back, fetching icy cold water and bobby pins before leading me to a couch to crash on for the night.

Yessiree, a truly mortifying experience that should never occur past the age of 18. Worst of all I have no way of apologising and thanking these lovely people until seeing them in person again. Which means that I have to see them in person again. Oh the shame.

I suppose it's just as well there are 22 million people living in Greater London, so a sign in a taxi told me the other day. With no red wine and sambuca to undo me next time, hopefully I can redeem myself with the remaining 21 999 994 clean slates out there!

Love, Em xxx

The Waiting Game

When faced with the choice to travel prior to starting up work and settling down in the UK, it was a pretty easy decision to make. For the responsible, pro harmony, have-to-plan-to-be-spontaneous person that I am, the thought of trekking around Europe wrecklessly spending without a guaranteed job to fall upon afterwards filled me with dread. Instead I would be happily boarding the plane having already lined up my first recruitment agency interview for the day after arriving. In the perfect world I was envisioning, this would allow me enough time to set up my bank account, get a UK SIM, get my NI number (TFN equivalent) and iron my clothes ready to rock up and accept a fabulous opportunity.

A domino effect of technological disasters later, by the end of day one all I had managed to accomplish was opening the bank account (not that I could access it yet). All good and well I thought, as I donned my corporate attire the next day and brushed my teeth three times over in preparation for my big smoke break.

Opening the door to the first recruitment agency, I was welcomed by a state of organised chaos. I was quickly ushered along to sit at a computer and take some skills testing in MS Word, Excel, spelling and typing. This was followed by a face to face interview and a promise to be in contact shortly. Before I knew it, I found myself back out on the street and forced to play The Waiting Game.

The Waiting Game is a state of helpless limbo in which I have found myself placed on a regular basis - regarding technology, bank account, job and house hunt. On top of this, as the lady behind the reception desk agrees, London is a city that is dependant on processes and natural progression. Throw a spanner in the mix, whether it be by the delayed opening of a bank account or no secure permanent address to send correspondence too, it prolongs The Dreaded Waiting Game.

Now, for all those thinking "how fabulous, talk about an extended holiday!" the thought of galavanting my way across London only to receive a negative phone call in the middle of a public space fills me with a type of fear that would most certainly distract anyone from the wonders of places such as the National Gallery. Fortunately the weekends have been my fear-free saviour where I have so far experienced the delights of Covent Garden Markets, Soho, The British Museum and the British Library. During the week though, my broomstick cupboard bedroom has become a sanctuary in between interviews where I can happily take off my pants and research more opportunities mixed in with watching an entire two seasons of Suits. A romantic vision, no?

However, two weeks, five recruitment agencies, nine interviews, 10+ house viewings and too many tube journeys that I'm willing to recall later, an end to The Waiting Game is hopefully and tauntingly close. Armed with a kick-ass recruitment agent and enough funds to blind the renting agency from the fact I've never lived out of home before, by the end of the week some things may have fallen into place. Although I will have to face an end to the pants-off-Fridayandeveryotherdayoftheweek era once co-habiting with a couple of guys, it's a small price I'm willing to pay for consistency and security!

Love, Em xxx

Be my Friend... Please?

Making friends.

You're never exactly taught how to make friends. When younger, we get thrown into environments with people of the same age and left to figure it out for ourselves. The most innocent do it best, perhaps. I remember announcing to my parents after my first day of kindergarten that Sally and I were going to be best friends forever and ever (forever may have been a stretch, but we were certainly best friends for quite a few years). Later at school, despite moving around friendship groups and being bullied by a couple of ex-best friends, I came out the other side with the best group of friends I could possibly wish for.

Friends so good, that when it came to attending university I didn't really try to make new friends. It didn't help being thrown into a broad degree with thousands of people. I did make attempts, in the beginning, but found it so exhausting to make small talk with people who I then never saw again for the rest of the degree. Joining a touch football team would have been a much more successful friend venture, if only I could play touch football. It doesn't matter how lovely you are, continuing to drop the ball doesn't make you the most popular team member!

Besides, I had managed to slot myself into my new work environment nicely. Spending all day with colleagues and then choosing to spend free time with them as well? That's not friendship, that's family. With a second family now larger than my actual family, filled to the brim with mutual love and care for one another, making new friends got put on the back burner.

Until now.

Yes, in between stressing about accommodation and employment, in my mind I had skimmed over the fact that it would also mean making friends. Not quite as easy to do when you're not necessarily thrust into a group of people you will be spending copious amounts of time with.

Sure, there have been pleasant interactions with people in the corridor of where I'm staying. Though despite continuing to pull out the "going to the toilet again, Trevor?" joke all I manage to get is an odd look in return. I continue to smile at strangers going in the opposite direction on the escalators at the tube stations, hoping they'll also feel we could be kindred spirits and jump over the railing to travel with me into the sunset.

All joking aside, it hasn't been completely hopeless. I am now buddies with the night time security man on the front desk. And also the luggage minder man, who might also be involved in some washing car black market as every day he seems to be cleaning a different $100 000+ car despite the student accommodation surroundings.

There's also the night time guy over at the Pret a Manger across the street (where I have been buying just about all three meals a day from). Knowing of my situation, he now asks me when I come in to collect my dinner whether I'd made any new friends that day. It's hard to pretend you're not desperate when in fact you are. Sigh.

It's times like these that you tend to clutch on to the old friends that seem so much easier to keep. Living in different time zones and appreciating the fact that they are living with an abundance of friends around them to keep desperate times in check doesn't help. Cute little non-descript emails and messages are sent to let them know I'M STILL HERE, and I secretly hope for confirmation that we're still friends in the form of essays and gushing words of "life is not the same without you" in return. Unfortunately as much as I hate to admit it, their world continues while mine has been tipped upside down.

Still, there is hope! A new workplace and new house environment will allow me the time to win some people over. My beautiful friend Sophie continues to make friend suggestions on Facebook for all of the people she knows over here on the off-chance that we too can be friends. Plus, it seems like the Lord has thrown me a lifeline in the form of an old Contiki friend who is also making the trek over to London solo. Despite her good looks and natural charm, I hold on to the fact that she will also be as desperate as I am and we can initially cling to each other for the sake of enjoying social activities in the city with someone other than ourselves :)

Love, Em xxx

Share House Hunting

They say there are two things you need to do before being able to dig your roots into a new city:
1. Get a job
2. Find a place to call home

While I continue to endlessly apply for jobs online and have enlisted recruitment agencies to be on the job for me (more on that subject later... recruitment agencies are a beast of their own), there's hope that something will eventuate before long. House hunting, however, possibly requires even more patience and perseverance. For although you might be happy to take an O-K job that simply pays the bills, you need to be a little more selective about the place you return to after escaping said less-than-desirable job after a long day.

It begins with scouring the internet for hot leads (I swear you could rule the world from sitting in bed in your pyjamas, with simply a computer and an internet connection as weapons) in areas you hope live up the the opinions of fellow bloggers. Allowing enough time to get from A to B in order to be on time to view the place. Soak in the general atmosphere of the area and picture yourself making the walk from the tube home everyday. Then, and finally then, ringing the doorbell of your potential new home and praying that this will be it.

So far, I have looked at ten places thinking each of them would be it. Needless to say, none of them were it. I have a renewed respect for Goldilocks and her quest for perfection. She demonstrated great perseverance sitting on all of those seats, eating all of that porridge and lying down in all of those beds. She has become my new inspiration as I continue the search for somewhere to live.

So far, I have encountered lovely area/lovely room/old people, dodgy area/average room/amazing people, lovely area/lovely room/person who was watching the TV in the background the whole time while we were having our first conversation, dodgy area/dodgy room/dodgy people (I'm trying hard to forget that one) and okay area/okay room/lovely people/wayyy too expensive combinations.

It would be quite easy to spend months searching for the perfect place. Unfortunately, I've got until next Thursday until I'm kicked out of my broomstick cupboard in Central London.

So, with that in mind, I reluctantly left my broomstick cupboard sanctuary to have a look at a place at 8pm last night. It was in an area I came across by chance on Friday heading to a recruitment agency interview. Immediately I knew something was different, as the first attractive boy I've seen here sat on the tube and gave me a beaming smile. Getting off at the station, I walked up the stairs and emerged in heaven. Sunshine. Bounding acres of green grass where people were simply lying and soaking it all in. Children being picked up from school in little British uniforms. Red double decker buses driving by every couple of minutes. Cute delis and corner stores, and twinkles in people's eyes.

Clapham.

Yes, thought Goldilocks. I could live here.

So, with heart in hand I knocked on the door of my potential new home in gorgeous Clapham.

The girls were lovely. Their friends who were over were lovely. The room was perfect and it even had its own ensuite. There was a washing machine and clothes drying rack. Yes, thought Goldilocks. I could live here. However, while I was still plucking up the courage to let the girls know that I would happily sign any paperwork that was needed, the doorbell rang.

Another girl coming to have a look at this perfect room.

Unfortunately it's easy to forget that there are other people also in search for a perfect space, and rejection in favour of another is quite likely. For all of the dodgy places I'd looked at, that were happy to offer me a place on the spot, of course it wouldn't be the case for the place I had fallen in love with. Unfortunately, the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears failed to offer any kind of guidance as to what to do when a Competitor Goldilocks enters the competition rink. In an attempt to avoid awkward confrontation, I instead sat down on the couch and pretended to be one of the existing friends while the competition check out my new room and laughed with my new roomies. Fortunately, I timed my exist just as she was standing outside with New Roomie #1 and as we faked friends saying goodbye, I managed to give her a big hug before walking on my way. Take that, Competition Goldilocks.

So now we play the waiting game. Despite hoping for the best, I continue to arrange viewings of other places in the area. Next time though, I will be armed with something more sinister such as stink bombs should another encounter with the competition arise.

Love, Em xxx

First Impressions

They say that making a good first impression is crucial and can affect the future relationship you have with a person, or in this case, place.

Having visited London on two occasions previously, the city had already let down my expectations. To be fair, these were expectations made by movies such as Love Actually and Christmas carols whereby people dream of white Christmases and festive cheer. While my friend Bri and I first landed in London during the winter season, not only were we greeted by an EMPTY Heathrow Airport (with no Hugh Grant voiceover to declare that love is all you need) but skies so blue that even snow wouldn't be brave enough to disturb them. Not that we were complaining.

However, this sets a background for how in my experiences thus far, London has refused to let itself be categorised or stereotyped. You think people are grumpy? They'll bend over backwards to help you. The weather is miserable? You get sunny days on end. You declare everyone is dull and dress in dark colours? A lady with a shaved and tattooed head will walk by wearing a bright pink coat that allows her to show off the tattooed line running down the back of each leg.

But what then, does London think of the first impression I'm giving?

As soon as I landed a week ago, it was important to differentiate myself from the standard tourists. First step was learn to keep to the right hand side (unless driving) and walk quickly to move effortlessly amongst the cluster of commuters. Memorise the tube map before embarking on a journey. Avoid direct eye contact with fellow passengers on the tube. Be sure to maintain general hygiene standards. Restrain from breaking out into spontaneous sing and dance when listening to iPod. Etc etc.

So far I think I'm doing okay, though there's no doubt true Londoners would be able to see right through me. For example, only a crazy Australian would declare the weather warm enough to go for an early morning run in leggings and a t-shirt. While passing fellow enthusiasts as I walked to Regent's Park earlier this morning, I smugly patted myself on the back for adjusting to the new weather so well, I was tougher than the locals. However, after I began to jog it was only a matter of time before the cold air burned my lungs as I gasped for breath and my whole head began to throb. After only half an hour I returned to my lodgings with my tail between my legs and dreaming of a hot shower to awaken me from this cold stun. Note to self: exaggerated enthusiasm for exercise will only result in punishment.

The faux pas continued, as my happy greeting to the security man at the front desk distracted me from the obvious obstruction in my path. The front door.

Though I may have relocated to a different country, awkwardness has found a way to follow me all the way here. As far as first impressions go, I'm afraid London is probably bracing itself for an Australian version of Bridget Jones. Let's just hope there's a happy ending that involves a Mr Mark Darcy. One can only hope...

Love, Em xxx

Introduction

Socrates once claimed, the unexamined life is not worth living. So, what then, when you have sat through countless university lectures examining various aspects of life in history, literature, sociology and psychology, you come out the other side and feel more confused about "life" than when you started?

My name is Emma. I am 22 years old and sometime whilst contemplating life last year, I decided to take the leap and relocate overseas. I would be leaving behind in Australia a loving family, an old and faithful dog, a fabulous group of friends, someone I care about deeply, a job that had more good days than bad working with a great team of colleagues. In essence, a big, warm, cuddly security blanket.

Now, I am the biggest advocate for the importance of learning about the past in order to make more knowledgeable decisions about the future. However, there comes a point where you can get so bogged down about your present that none of it matters anyway. Wake up, work out, work, eat, socialise, sleep... routine, routine, routine. Your senses get dulled and you miss what's happening in front of you as you look towards your next commitment for the day. Your self is defined in relation to your surroundings. And, if you're like me, you start to imagine the life you wish you were living, rather than going out there and doing it. Socrates, you may be a smart guy, but I'd wish you luck trying to examine life in the 21st century.

So, what better way to break free of the mould than to simply pack your life up into a suitcase and launch yourself into the unknown? And so we fast-forward to the end of April 2013 when, after many emotional goodbyes to all of the people (and dog) mentioned above, a little girl and a very large suitcase arrived at Brisbane International Airport with anxious parents in tow. It wasn't exactly a smooth send off, with a necessary emergency reshuffle of luggage at the check in counter to meet the hand luggage weight restrictions. However, after a teary goodbye I boarded a plane that would take me to London. Well, first Singapore. Then Abu Dhabi. But THEN, after 30 hours of long, uncomfortable travel and terrible plane food, I stepped off that plane and breathed in the beautiful fumes of London Town.

This blog will cover my journey relocating to London solo and my learnings and experiences along the way. After such a heavy introduction, I intend for it to be a lighthearted read for anyone who is contemplating doing the same thing themselves. It will have to be kept lighthearted, so as to not put you off! But also for those back home keeping tabs on my progress, and for something for me to do in my broomstick cupboard of a bedroom while I wait to make new friends and actually have something exciting to do on a Saturday night.

So sit back, enjoy a cup of tea as you read how I learn about my "self" and life in general over the next couple of years within a set of completely different surroundings.

Love, Em xxx