sickness (home and otherwise)

It's 4:39pm and north London is setting into the slightly darker shade of grey that means night time. The darkness doesn't fall here; it rises from the damp pavement. The rotting autumn leaves seem to evaporate into the evening and smear it dark. I do like the wet smell of it. I'd say the thermometer would read single digits, but I'm too afraid to check so I stay inside and wrap my knees in a blanket. I can feel years accumulating on my body clock while I tuck the green wool further under my thighs and think about making porridge.

The truth is, things aren't great yet. It's not winter but damn, it ain't fall like I imagined. I'm stagnating in winter's awkward pubescence. My brain feels like it's been replaced with cupcakes and my nose is streaming but it's not buttercream icing. It stings that my first British cold came so early. I'm on my third consecutive day off work and I've eaten enough cheese in that time to smother this puny country like a pizza. I haven't been outside in 58 hours because getting dressed for the weather is a mathematical exercise that my cupcakes can't face right now. You'll be pleased to know I've showered twice in that time. And I opened the window yesterday, for a spell. 

My onesie is in the washing machine. I enjoy watching its cat face smoosh around on the glass, still smiling. I've never had a front loader before, and it makes animal-inspired clothing far more enjoyable.  

The fact I now own a onesie is telling. My social interaction in London mostly includes work and Skype. So: strangers, and people a half a planet away (and let's be honest, I'm mostly talking to my mum). Until the ills hit, I was supposed to be gallivanting this weekend with one of the few Londoners I do know. Right now, as I'm typing, the last of the Lord Mayor's fireworks will be fizzling from the night-grey sky and the people of London will be participating in a synchronised scarf-adjusting as they head away from the riverbank to some place warm. I'm adjusting my knee blanket. 

OH, MISERY.

Homesickness is a funny thing. I'm not so much sick for home. Rather, I am beginning to recognise its merits and appreciate its comforts. I see now how I under-appreciated things like, say, the sleazy heat of the Gold Coast, the freedom of wearing shorts, the ease of everyone I love being within driving distance.

Did I mention that no celebrities have approached me on the street yet and asked me to write their best-selling biography, and that really gets me down? I'm a waitress in London waiting for a break to crack itself over my head while I'm looking the other way. That is both a romantic notion and a daily trial in self-acceptance.

My dad has great sayings, and I'm not just saying that because I miss them. He says a thing sometimes if he catches me looking morose. I try to bear it in mind.

It goes like: 

Cheer up, you'll soon be dead.

And that I will, I suppose.

I think the temperature will irk me less when there's snow involved. I think everything will irk me less when I've drawn myself a social circle and stopped expressing my loneliness through baked goods.

To everyone who has moved countries and set up a life and is happy, I congratulate you. 

I'm in Finchley, North London, and it's raining again. Send help.