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