How to be Single

A couple of days ago I watched a really rather horrifying film. I think you can tell by the blog title which film I'm referring to.

A tale of three young women: the first, a fresh college graduate in New York City who immediately regrets dumping her boyfriend of four years after he finds someone else and refuses to take her back. She spends the rest of the film hopelessly wandering between other men until she climbs the Grand Canyon on New Years Eve. The second is her older sister, a midwife totally against having children of her own until she's left in a room with one so decides to get pregnant via sperm doner. Meanwhile, she is being persued by a very attractive man a few years her junior who actually turns out to be totally okay with the her life changing decision. She falls in love with him and we're left to assume that he raises said illegitimate child. The third is Rebel Wilson. A strong, independent woman who has sex with whoever she wants, does whatever she wants and contributes to the comedy value of the film. She's also used for apparent shits and gigs whenever single lady #1 is single and needs a laugh.

Many might watch this film and personally relate to the characters humorous lives and pre-scripted whit and some may actually wish their lives were just as dramatic and exciting. Personally, I'd rather burn the DVD and risk a hefty fine and membership cancellation from the local rental store after I deliver the ashes back to them with a serious complaint.

This film did not teach me how to be single!!

People are single in very different ways, and yes, some are better at it than others, but with this comes the stereotypes and expectations behind how we, as a collective, should behave. I recently read a self-confessed rant about how female identity has been "shaped by excuses and lies" by Mia Morgan: I REFUSE! it was titled.

Using examples from her own personal experiences, she explained that she has always been either reprimanded or complimented depending on how individuals judge her level of femininity in society. At 3, her grandmother tells her off for scratching between her legs, despite the fact that she'd seen men doing it in public and she had an itch. At 17, a guy who had a crush on her would regularly compliment her for being "not like other girls" because she wasn't a bitch or superficial or slutty. Whenever she questioned people's reasons behind their opinions, they have simply replied "it's just how it is'.

Beyond it's obvious bias, Mia makes a good point. As a single woman who has no interest in changing my status anytime soon , I've found that I am still expected to obey to certain rules and expectations set by society, films and the people around me. I cannot appear too slutty without being perceived as a mindless bitch or desperate and pathetic. If I go out in public with unbrushed hair and the oversized T-shirt that I wore to bed, people will cast me a pitying gaze, as if I've just been dumped or come down with the flu. I have a news flash for you, I'm actually just lazy. And there are also days when I just want to be a bitch to everyone, and other desperate and pathetic days when I want to drown my sorrows and get some cuddles in. I mean, who doesn't? Because the world seems to have forgotten something very important about single people; we're still just people.

I'm still just me, a relatively happy-go-lucky girl who accidentally sings out loud in the middle of the supermarket because the song playing on my headphones is just too good. Like most humans out there, I like sex and experience the usual chemical imbalances that cause horniness and excessive alcohol consumption, but a lot of the time I'd rather squash my face in a good book and inhale soy flat whites until I'm shaking. However, while out for a few drinks with some friends, the subject of my "love life" rose (the inverted commas confirming my actual lack of any love life whatsoever seeing as I don't count being offered money in exchange for a date as love life). My friend Blue* disagrees. He seems to think that my like button is getting more hits than I'm aware of, "You're pretty, blonde and very friendly and I know that's just how you are but many guys would see it as leading affection. You don't mean to lead them on, but you do."

On the one hand, I know that my overdosed level of humanity makes it hard for me to turn around and tell a guy "I don't want to have sex with you/date you because I'm not at all attracted to you/I'm just not in the mood but you seem like a lovely person/absolute wanker so let's just be friends/never speak again". On the other hand, though, this poked at a bit of a sore spot. Was it really possible that I'd just been told that I was in the wrong for being too nice because I might be leading on innocent hearts and penis' all over the place.

God forbid seeing as I work in a mens clothes shop and being nice is kind of in the job description. I'm also pretty sure that general niceties to the people around me is a heavily weighted claim on the application for you know who's very important list (Santa, you moron, not Voldemort). I was in even more shock and confusion over this statement after my female friend agreed. As if confirming that social conformity states that one must be careful about the assumptions being made in other people's head. Have I taken it too far? Who knows...

If life has taught me anything, it's that there probably is at least one person out there that I'm compatible enough with to date them for longer than 6 months, but I have about ten years until I need to start running round in cyber space looking for all the perfect pixilated man on match.com or eharmony or ... whatever the others are called. Until then, I have this amazing free space all to myself to find myself in some deep meaningful way and love myself for who I am and experiment with different lifestyles and personas and possible suitors and probably stop taking the drugs that caused whatever that was I just said, dude.

I read a book a few months ago which I'm debating labelling, the best book I have ever read. 'I was Told There'd be Cake' by Sloane Crosley. A fabulously feminist book about a girls trials and tribulations through her teen years into her adult life. Every chapter a funny anecdote that reveals such a brutally honest insight into the daily goings on inside my brain that I was left weeping and cringing along with her main character. But the thing that stood out more than anything was her ability to make it through a whole book without the need to spend five chapters dramatizing a horrendous love story or need for a man in her life. A 21st century miracle.

That's how I want to be single, I thought. I don't want to be single and looking for love, or single and depressed or single and watching my every move so as not to attract any unwanted male advances. I can't even control my hair for goodness sake, let alone the disastrous mess that is my verbal vomit. I just want to be single.

After all, if a guy really thinks every friendly single girl wants to have sex with him, maybe he needs a bit of an ego adjustment; a gentle nudge into the reality behind a big smile and a mess of blonde hair. Because in actual fact, maybe I just want to make friends.

[CUE: Massive groan of irritable disappointment from entire male population]

So I guess now would be the time for some massive answer to the question of life, but I'm afraid the only advice I can offer is somewhat of an anti-climax:

YOU DO YOU.

It sounds shit and obvious doesn't it? In actual fact, I'm going to tell you why this is my conclusion. A single ladies, we have the ability to live this short while not having to use that word that all us stubborn fuckers hate: compromise!
How we feel about our time being single, seems focussed around how our ultimately harmless actions are perceived (even if I did snog him in the girls toilets, so what?) and we adjust ourselves accordingly, which only causes the prejudice to be targeted at our single sisters who aren't willing to conform. Mia will continue to be told that "it's just the way it is" and films will continue to tell us that the Bridget Jones life is hovering dangerously in the not-too-distant future.  But you know what? I'd love to be a successful TV producer with a few embarrassing moments tucked under my comfortable granny pants.

So you do you and do it fucking good.

Peace Out.

Basically Bali

Two pale chicks get off the plane...

It sounds like that start of a joke, but there's nothing funny about escaping a surprisingly cold Australian city to bask in the beautiful Balinese sunshine. Dreams of paddle boarding, drinking Bintang and gradually turning a dark golden brown linger above our heads in almost visible thought bubbles.

At this time of year, Uluwatu is a perfect thirty to thirty-five degrees and a warm breeze follows the jagged coastline, scattered with little coves and caves and tropical secret beaches with golden sand and clean breaks out on the reef. Paradise.

"Shall we get some gin?"

Famous last words seem to be a backpackers downfall, don't they?

As we sit on the tiled steps outside the traditional-styled accommodation, drinking gin and tonics and smoking $2-a-pack cigarettes, we promise to never, ever reveal the fuck up that occurred on the way from the airport.

[Travel Advice: ALWAYS get a taxi from one of the companies inside the airport. Not the scary strangers stood outside, just in case you happen to leave anything precious behind.]

We were already making friends. Hannah and I had arrived at the airport early, groggy-eyed and weighed down by our possessions. Sipping on coffee to keep us alive and alert, we'd raced an Australian surfer through customs, narrowly winning thanks to an over zealous security guard scrutinizing his bag.

The surfer was sat near us on the plane and, when it comes to Bali, that basically means your friends for life. The over excited holiday mode that takes over the moment you arrive at the airport, almost as if flicking a switch as you check in your bags. "Can I see your passport and remote control?" the check in lady should say, "Make sure you've been set to the right mode". Of course I'm pretty sure that's another idea for some dystopian literature.

"So what's the plan then?" Says Hannah.
"Oh, I don't know. Stay alive, get a tan, make some more friends" I replied.
"Friends like the friend you met on the plane?" Hannah threw me a look while I sat there trying to reply to my new friends message.
"Exactly." I said without hesitation. She'll understand in a few days, I thought, everyone's just friends with everyone in Bali.

We spent days on beaches and evenings watching sunsets in marvelous places. Gazing over at Hannah, I wondered if it would be a bad idea to ask, for the tenth time that day, if she was enjoying herself. The little cross of guilt resting on my shoulders after losing her on the way to Padang Padang on our mopeds. Driving across the bridge, I'd glanced in my mirror to check she was following and would notice me indicate into the car park. Trundling across the bridge, at a rather gentle pace, was a lady in a white top, moped helmet and aviator-style sun glasses. 'That'll be her!' I thought speeding on up the road and coming to an unsteady, but reasonably successful stop. Two minutes later, I came to the conclusion that she's either collided with the seriously misplaced coach, or had simply not seen me pull into the car park and was currently speeding off towards the unknown land beyond Padang.

"Oh fuck."

I think she'd forgiven me. I did defy the laws of mind over matter, ignoring all fear of my own capabilities (or lack of them) on a bike, hastily chasing her down the road, begging to the higher power that I rely so heavily on when the fuck up is probably my fault, to discover her coming towards me with a line of cars in tow, smiling pleasantly like she was going to kill me in my sleep. 'It's okay,' I thought, 'we're at the beach now.'

As I pulled up in the car park for a second time, I laughed and pointed openly at a lady climbing off a bike, wearing a white top, helmet and aviator-style sunglasses. Just like Hannah. I ignored the fact that this doppleganger also turned out to be about 20 stone heavier than Hannah. We had 7 more days together yet!

"What are you wearing tonight?" She stirred from her sunbathing slumber and I realised that I hadn't given it a second of thought. It was our last day in Uluwatu and tonight, which happened to be a Wednesday, we were going to Single Fin. For all those aware of the famous cliff top bar and sort of night-club-come-restaurant venue, you'll know that Wednesday's the best day to go. Some of the more raving, mushroom loving lunatics might suggest that the other music night on Sunday is better, but I like the chilled atmosphere that surrounds the midweek party goers. The music is a mix of guilty pleasures from Bob Marley to Blondie and Florence and the Machine to Flume (all relative, unoffensive remixes of course). Angel by Shaggy even came on at one point and if anyone wants to know a little fact about me: this was not something I was against. In fact, we even made a video.

However, while we lay in the hot afternoon sun next to the infinity pool we'd cleverly made available to ourselves despite not actually staying at the resort, I was somewhat saddened that trip was already half over, and then reality would have to be faced right in the, well, face. I decided to wear my pale grey and white spotted pixie dress which was pale enough to make me look tanned and light and loose enough to generate some airflow. Turns out it was so light and loose that it was also a little see-through but c'est la vie. Que sera, sera and all that jazz.

It was, of course, a hot and humid evening as sunkissed dancers sucked on the ice cubes from their empty drink glasses and fanned themselves with napkins and leaflets and and anything they could find in their bags. We danced, surrounded by lanterns, illuminating puffs of cigarette smoke in the clear night sky until we couldn't ignore the temptation of the air conditioned bathrooms any longer. The sight that met us as we burst through the doors was one of girls desperately trying to save their make up from sliding down their face, while still disguising patches of sunburn, which glowed with embarrassment in the heat. I splashed my face with water before soaking a paper towel to dab over the rest of my body. Oh the trials and tribulations of looking fabulous on holiday! Instagram would suggest that we effortlessly frolick in the sea and sand, smelling like sea salt and coconut with beachy hair cascading down our backs. In reality, we're all just really fucking hot and sticky.

Waking up the next morning incredibly hungover and full of shame and regret, I try to forget that we very nearly didn't make it home alive thanks to packs of wild dogs, let alone the fact that I was the new reining champion of emptying the contents of my stomach. Whoops.

"How are you feeling?" Hannah looked concerned as I squashed large mouthfuls of pancakes covered in lime and honey into my face like I'd been fasting for a week.
"Empty" I attempted to reply, feeling grossly primitive talking with food in my mouth. She chuckled, slightly, before returning to her plate, probably trying to block the scarring visions of my disgrace.

After arriving in Kuta later that day, spirits were raised with the promise of a relaxing afternoon by the pool and drinks with our plane friend.

"Hey! I'm in Kuta later, where you girls staying?" The message had read
"Suka Beach" I replied.

He checked in two hours later and we went to meet his friends at the beach to watch the sunset, perched in deckchairs, drinking Bintangs at one of the many makeshift beach bars that line the sand from one end of the beach to the other. As you walk along the sand there is a cacophony of calls and beckons from the locals that own the bars; "come sit! Cold beer! Very good, very good!"

"Terima Kassih" we say when we choose our seats and they bring us beer. "Tare in my car seat" jokes our friend, very pleased with himself. "That's how I remember how to say it!" It's clearly not the first time he's made this joke. After dinner we go for drinks at Stakz, voted the best food venue in Bali in 2014. We nurse our hangovers with Smirnoff Ice and secretly placing wagers on the age of our new friends. To sum up, one of them apparently looked like a younger version of Hannah's Dad. Thankfully, we concluded the rest were much younger.

Because I'm absolutely appalling at leaving reviews on Trip Advisor, I'll tell you now that the hostess at Stakz is a good enough reason to go on her own. A fabulous Indonesian lady dressed in electric blue who stroked my hair, called me beautiful and classily flirted with her guests like a pro, making everyone feel welcome and raising the atmosphere with her jokes and radiant smile. The breakfast the next day was pretty banging too.

Our next and final stop was Berawa beach in Canggu. A black-sanded stretch (caused by the volcano further in land) where tourism is a thing of the past and the beaches population consists mainly of the Australians that have moved there or own a house nearby so they can ride lonely waves with little competition from ametures and swimmers. The only beach bar here is a more established one called The Naked Coconut, nestled in colourfully painted palm trees with beautifully printed floor cushions arranged in their shade, their biggest seller is, suitably, chilled young coconuts. The top of which they hack off with a machete-type knife and stick a straw in it for convenience. Tah Dah!

Our hotel is called Charlie Browns, and for about $30/day (a step up in price from our previous residence on the trip) you get absolute luxury. Two double beds to a room with en suite wet room, television, complimentary water, incredibly efficient air conditioning, a fridge, a wardrobe and a pillow shaped perfectly for spooning. What more could two single girls want? And let's not forget the pool and included breakfast of eggs, toast and fruit made by a loving hostess who explained that regular guests have taken to calling her Momma. After daily lifts to Seminyak, Deus' Temple of Enthusiasm, Echo Beach and the airport for very cheap rates, we understood why.

At Seminyak beach, we sat and sunbathed at a bar that had developed leaps and bounds ahead of its competitors, with a generator for music, bean bags to sit on and an actual approachable bar containing fridges and mie goreng for the occasional peckish beach-goer. We made friends with manager, a young man from Jakarta who sat and smoked and talked with us most of the afternoon, introducing us to his very adorable puppies and keeping our drinks flowing. As we chatted and cooed over the puppies, a collection of Australians inhabited the bar next to ours, attempting to call us over to sit with them.

"We have puppies and they're just jealous!" stated Hannah

Needless to say, as we left the beach after sunset, they caught us, promising just five minutes of our time and a free drink, so we stayed an hour, had two drinks and then went for dinner with them at the beach front restaurant right next to their hotel which had only been open four days. I'm currently cursing myself for forgetting the name, because the owner, who had spent the last three years managing some of the best restaurants in Melbourne was fantastic, offering the best service along side free starters and deserts and even a tequila shot. If I go back to Canggu, I will undoubtably go back because the food was delicious! The live music was provided by a woman who knew every song we asked her to play and an incredible voice that, without sounding too 'X-Factor judge', gave me goosebumps.

Our new friends were from Wollongong in Australia and, because the world really is that small, we have mutual friends who we marvelled at for sometime, challenging the coincidence with more names and places that the other might know. They were also the same age as us which thrilled Hannah into a high pitched excitement.

On our last day the rain came, as if protesting our departure and sulked, rather hungover from the night before at Deus, over our last meal. A deliscious curry from the restaurant just a 30 second walk away. We also sulked over ice cream and more beer while we packed.

As we stepped off the plane in Syndey, a much colder rain greeted us, with a painful Australian twang we were guided round the airport and smacked with the reality of joblessness and dwindling funds.

That's what travelling is all about though isn't it? Meeting people who will laugh at the disasters that almost had you panicked into a fit, scooping you up, handing you a beer and reminding you that you're on holiday for fuck sake. Because, for fuck sake, we were on a bloody marvellous one. And we still are (even if Sydney is one big rainy poverty pit for a short while). The next adventure lingers on the horizon.

'Till then, my pretties!

P.S: If anyone is struggling to figure out how to spend their New Years Eve this year, whether it be in icy London or wet and windy Cornwall (or even the toasty delights of Sydney and their mind-blowing selfie sticks... I mean, fireworks) I strongly recommend joining the party on Gilly T, a magical paradise island just off the coast of Bali. See you there x

"It Tastes Like Christmas!"

This isn't a horror story... not a fictional one anyway
LOOK AT THOSE CLOUDS!

4pm on Friday 13th May.

I know what your thinking, I have a Friday-the-thirteenth horror story to share with the world. But while I sit here, slurping down my third coffee of the day, and without jinxing myself too much, I can cautiously say that I haven't really noticed any final destination chaos hurtling towards me with a vengeance. 

Nope. I can confirm that this post is totally unrelated to the mythical day that karma takes a holiday and everyone throws their shit at a fan. Today, at this time, I am hear to report that it is 20 degrees C. That's right everyone, regardless of what John Snow and his northern friends believe, winter has most certainly come to Sydney, Australia. 

I, like so many other misty-eyed, first-time backpackers before me, were shocked, outraged and left threatening to sue the country of Australia after discovering it's not all scorching deserts and humid rain forest biomes* down in this mystical place called the Southern Hemisphere. Sadly, it does in fact suffer from the world's worst sickness: winter. 

As a self-diagnosed cryophobic, I escaped to the sunny corner of the planet which promised deadly holes in the ozone layer and temperatures so high that the entire Australian population has evolved to live little further than running distance from the ocean. I discovered very quickly that not even the only exotic English-speaking country could escape the weather systems I revised so poorly for my Geography A-Level.

So while everyone else taps away about their hilarious Friday the thirteenth run with THAT ex while their hair was a mess and they'd just snapped their favorite pair of Jimmy Choo's, I'm here to send a very important message to the wonderfully bewildered people of the Northern Hemisphere: the theory that Australia is permanently enjoying summer, is the biggest con since capitalism (and we all know how well we bought into that one).

I mean, am I telling you that Sydney and Melbourne are six feet deep in snow from June-September? Of course not, how gullible are you guys? Seriously.

However, am I telling you that by the end of April you can wave goodbye to that golden tan you've been sporting like you're first ever Prada handbag since stepping off that 20 hour plus plane journey? Yes, that I am. 

But the lie doesn't end there my little frosty-fingered friends, oh no no no. From one's first experience of a hurricane-style thunderstorm- which lasted over a week and had me sky scanning for the next flight to Bali- I was looked in the eye and told, totally honestly, that by the time winter hit New South Wales, it would still be warmer than British summer time and you can always scoot up north for the "actual" part of Australia that doesn't experience winter. 

Lies.

After being totally randomly and spontaneously (and in true backpacker style) "let go" from my totally stable job (Ha!) in the cooky suburb of Newtown, conveniently before my long-awaited second trip to Bali [gasp for air] I've considered the possibility of a surfers paradise lifestyle.

You know the dream, casually well-payed job at a surf shop, inches from the sand and an overpriced shared apartment just inches away from work so I can practice those appalling surf-skills everyday on my brand new little fish... An impeccable new fashion sense, hair cut and a fling that even Jill Mansell couldn't put into luscious-enough cliched words wouldn't go amiss either. We can all dream right? 

No. No we can't. Because while all of this is 100% possible (ahem...) I'm going to have to achieve it in temperatures too far under 30 degrees to maintain a serious tan or frolic around in a bikini at all hours of the day and night without a care in the world.

This is a fact that a self-diagnosed cryophobic is finding seriously hard to come to terms with. Especially following a culture shock that nearly had me twitching on the floor in a processing error fit. The chef at my former place at work once thrust a spoonful of the new winter menu into my face for a delightful and wonderfully surprising taste test before I'd had my first coffee of the day. Without even thinking, I looked at the chef, doe-eyed and gleefully munching on baked apple/cinnamon flavors and said "It tastes like Christmas!" ... All I can say is it's a good job that this Australian chef had been to England, had a cup of coffee that morning and also had a basic understanding of the Northern and Southern Hemisphere and where their seasons fall on a calendar.  

So today, at 5pm on Friday 13th May, I leave you with these little home truths that should be considered when packing your perfectly planned out backpack. That's right, I'm not telling you not to come, don't be an idiot. However, no harm ever came from considering two pairs of jeans, a jacket, a couple jumpers and maybe even throw in a long sleeved t-shirt if you're sure you've got enough room. 

And while I'm being bossy... DO NOT BRING HIGH HEELS.

If you do this the force will be strong with you, young padawan. 

Peace Out.

*Biome: A man-made tropical eco-system inside a a giant dome-shaped greenhouse somewhere in the South West of England where people go on a rainy day to remind the public that there is life (and heat) outside the rainy world we're from.

It's okay to Breakfast on your own.

Newtown at 10am on a weekday is a bit of an in between place. Those who work in the city have left in their town cars or via public transport hours before you have dared graced the streets and anyone a similar age to yourself is either still in bed, or working at one of the many hipster, chic cafe's or coffee shops that open before sunrise. This leaves a strange mix-breed population of tourists, the unemployed and, like me, the lost day off-ers trying to figure out what to do. 

Without much contemplation or hesitation, I decide my morning will be spent somewhere secret, because if there's one thing I've discovered in life, it's that one will always survive if one can Breakfast on one's own. My choice of haven is situated a walk slightly too far from my hostel and friends houses for me to risk accidentally Breakfasting with company other than a book and is far too much of a competitor for me to risk a co-worker run-in on my solitary day off. 

Hiding in plain site, in a tiny little corner where even the waitress herself forgets I'm there, sipping on my strong soy flat white (which has a little too much head for my liking. But that's what happens when the place you work makes the best coffee in Sydney) and munching on a Bali-style ACAI bowl with "seasonal fruit" helpfully assisting my new lax-vegan lifestyle in my own bubble of anti-social isolation. I even bought a green juice with Kale in it.

Do I meet the stereotype yet? Or is it worth mentioning that my book of choice is the latest 'must-read' at the local bookshop, "a totally irresistible page turner" : I Was Told There'd Be Cake by the "post-modern Mary Tyler Moore", Sloane Crosley.

So what is the point of this? Other than confirming that I've found that place I will claim as my haven and never utter a single word of it to anyone. Nor will anyone know where/how to find me when I am there until I have decided to re-immerse myself back into the real world after pressing a three hour pause button consisting of two coffees, one breakfast, one overwhelmingly healthy-tasting juice and digesting five chapters of my must read. I have, in fact, stumbled apon one of those situations in life that one never really knows how to react to. Of course, when I say "stumbled apon" what I really mean is it slapped me in the face at 5 O'Clock one morning while I was getting ready for work and has since somewhat consumed my brain. 

The shock and denial followed by totally ignoring the situation altogether and simply hoping to live in an out-of-body existence until it all blew over plan was somewhat flushed down the toilet yesterday evening after I discovered my well-planned evening of dinner, sex and a private room, followed by a fun-filled day of breakfasting for two and a rock climbing date turned out to be a more fictional tale than the book I had been meaning to start. At times like this, I've found myself picking up the phone, and totally intruding on two particular people's evenings. Busying myself with swimming in their pool, cooking them dinner, drinking their alcohol and smoking their cigarettes until I was out in a night club, too drunk to function and being bailed into a cab by one of them and waking up the next day far too hungover to care about any plans I had originally made for the day. 

Sounds simple right? An obvious solution that avoids me getting angry, or needy, or even a little crazy. But the simple fact of the matter is that since that early morning slap in the face a few days ago, I don't know two people who pick me up when I'm down and get me drunk and feed me cigarettes and pay for hostel rooms after I've been mugged and have tequila shots in burrito bars in the middle of the day and drag me out of bed on a Sunday morning, feed me pancakes and drag me to the beach when I should be hiding out in my bedroom avoiding the fact that I called in sick at work at 4am. 

Instead, I now know two people in prison. So last night I slept alone in my private room and silently dropped off my key at reception at 8am, put on some clothes, and went for breakfast. Because you know what? When life throws you lemons like a tennis ball out of one of those aggressive training machines, all you can do is press those lemons into a healthy juice with FAD diets' new best friend, the curly kale, and accept that it's a Wonderful Life, as well sung by Katie Melua, no matter how bitterly healthy that juice tasted. I'd probably drink it again tomorrow.

So next time you see someone sat alone in a restaurant or a cafe, possibly reading a book, possibly writing one, don't pity their loneliness or consider how awkward a lonely breakfast would be, because you cannot knock it's effect on your overall mental state until you've tried it. I dare you. 

Peace out.

WonderLost

This is my face now...

It's been a while, hasn't it?

I'm half wondering if I've forgotten how to write all together. Unless you count taking coffee orders and venting in my diary as adequate writing experience then I've been somewhat lacking as of late and I think I owe my totally imaginary readers an explanation.

Since the 14th December 2015 I have been 10,780 miles away from my little seaside life in Cornwall, living it up/totally stumbling through life in Sydney, Australia. Vowing to leave all forms of publishing and journalistic thoughts behind until June 2016 when I supposedly return to my well mapped-out life on the yellow brick road to success and marriage and all that jazz.

When I started my travels I had absolutely no plan and no idea what I wanted to gain from my trip. I vowed never to hashtag "wonderlust" or "gap yarrr", learn how to surf and stay far away from men and their allure. Two out of three ain't bad.

Definitely don't fit the #wonderlust
streotype

So what's my life like now? I live in Newtown, a Bristol/Brighton-like suburb in inner west Sydney, where I also work as a waitress in a cafe that has a menu dedicated to bacon, South American coffee and blue denim with black and white striped uniforms. I eat at a vegan charity restaurant called Lentils is Everything where you pay what you can afford and I holiday in Bali and escape to Gerringong once a fortnight. I shop at Billabong and haven't blow dried my hair since my hair dryer (and the rest of my hand bag) was mugged from me during an eye-opening spell of fundraising nearly 2 months ago.

Bali was okay I guess....

I've made friends for life in the places I've traveled and collected all the weirdest and best kind of memories. I've been poor, I've been rich, I've almost been homeless a few times but I've always stumbled through it all, enjoying nearly every second. Wondering, lost, but happy.

Things I've learned include:

• Australia isn't actually that expensive, until you come back from Bali because everything there costs $3 max.
• It's a really fucking small world. Like really small. That person you don't want to bump into, will totally pop up at some point.
• Fuck making plans. I didn't even make plans and I still failed to achieve any of my original goals. Want to know how that's possible? Go travelling.
• Bladder infections are stupid.
• Make-up is stupid
• Owning more than 5 T-shirts, 2 pairs of shorts, two pairs of jeans, 3 bikini's, flip flops and trainers is stupid. No matter how much you want to raid all the surf shop sales. 
• Over dramatic people are an unnecessary drain on your energy resources. 
• It isn't always sunny in Australia. In fact, it rains A LOT in Sydney, and now it's nearly winter, it's bloody cold. I'm still figuring out who I can blame for this massive cover up of information. I think it's the media. Fucking irony.
• NEVER underestimate the significance of the avocado. Because they're everywhere, and there is no escaping them.

  

  I was always a foodie... 

What's next? 

I'm going back to Bali in May for 10 days of fun fun fun and going to New Zealand in June and Splendour in the Grass (festival in Byron, headliners include The Strokes and The Cure) in July and Perth in September. 

Hang on a minute? Wasn't I suppose to be 10,780 miles away in Cornwall in under 2 months? 

But how can someone leave this behind?

Whoops... 

Keep you posted from now on, I promise.

Peace Out!