"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!