I must admit I’m almost as out of touch as Tony Abbott… when it comes to matters of what to wear ‘down there’. In Australia, I mean.
Big chunks of the conversations I have on a daily basis centre around my Australianism. Obviously, once people tell me I’m tall and I reply with “yes I know”, the cat’s out of the bag – they’ve heard my accent. They then tell me they have a friend or relative who emigrated to Australia, can’t remember the name of the place, something creek? Something hills? Something flat? Near Perth, or Melbourne. Are Perth and Melbourne near each other? …and look at me expectantly. Sometimes, people just recite lists of well-known Australian people and things to me.
“Vegemite! Cathy Freeman! Sydney! Koalas!”
You’ll have noticed, cos you’re clever like that, that people like to TELL me things about Australia, not ask me. Which is fine, whatever. What I really need right now, though, is for a personal stylist to materialise and tell me something about Australia that I’m dying to know – what to take with me for my holiday.
You see, in less than two weeks, Chloe and I fly back to Australia for Christmas.
This marks the first time in FOUR YEARS that I’ll be in the same place at the same time as both of my sisters.
And the first time in 4 years that our family – Mum, Dad, us 3 girls – have been all together, although there was no suitable cat GIF for that.
Courtest of awkwardfamilyphotos.com (not my actual family)
Anyway. I have lived in Scotland for close to six years now. In that time, I haven’t aged a day obviously, but I’ve gone blonde, lost three stone, gained one back, and completely forgotten what to wear in temperatures above 15 degree celcius.
Scotland is cold. Even in Scottish summertime, the water that comes out of the cold tap… is cold. It’s rare for me to be bare-armed… ever. I can actually tell you the last time I wore something sleeveless, I felt so naked. I remember it vividly. It was when Chloe and I were in London for the David Bowie Is exhibition at the V&A.
let’s GIF just quickly
the abominable snowman
It was hot that week in London; it actually soared to 34 degrees one of the days we were there. And boy did I feel it.
So forgive me, Australia, for returning to your golden shores looking every inch the Brit abroad, ill equipped to deal with the heat, paler than a fish belly. And forgive me, Scotland, my home away from home. I love you, I do, but I’m really looking forward to thawing out for a couple of weeks! Rest assured, all of you – whatever I end up wearing (or not wearing, waaaaaaaa-heeeeey) down under, I’ll be very vocal about how effing hot it is.
In terms of partaking in the UK’s treasured national pass time of complaining about the weather, I’ve gone native.
