Yesterday, at work, I was asked what I miss most about England. Now, I miss so much about England it is getting ridiculous, but I answered honestly by not saying the obvious answer being 'my family and friends' (though I miss you guys a lot, no doubt about that) but I answered...
I know. RIDICULOUS. But honestly, I most miss the sensation of being cold. The strange complex idea that if one was cold one would automatically think, 'oh I should put a jumper on' Anyone who knows me would most definitley know that I am not one of these fashion girls, who buy everything there is to buy in Cosmo, but I am a girl with a standard uniform of a hooded jumper and a comfy pair of jeans. I brought three hoodies with me in my twenty-six kilos of luggage. All personalised and loved to pieces by myself, and yet they are hanging up in the wardrobe crying out to me to be worn.
But I can't.
Because I'd melt.
Gah. Why the tropics? Why take an ordinary english lass out of her comfortable surroundings and through her in this hot, sticky, sweaty, humid environment? Why Darwin?
I ponder this, sitting with the pedestal fan blowing in my face as my skin peels from the sunburn I got last week, watching every single episode of Scrubs to distract myself from the fact that I haven't yet seen Matt Smith's debut as The Doctor in The Eleventh Hour...
...and then Lionel walks by, and everything is fine again.
Even though I'm planning on someway to make a move down to Tasmania feasible for the both of us.
Mwahahaha. Little does he know.
On other news, the job hunt came to an end when I was offered one in a fish and chip shop over the road. So now I'm getting burnt and battered (not literally) by deep fat fryers for a living - and I come home smelling of chicken salt. Fun fun fun.