So where exactly is the heart?
It's strange, how you can be homesick for a place you only lived in for a short time.
But I find myself desperately missing aspects of London at odd moments. Monty Python episodes on DVD make me homesick for that grim vista near London Bridge, for the tiny terrace houses and casual intermingling of people and accents that was the East End.
I miss my friends, I miss the feeling of possibility in the air, I miss the fantastic shopping, the casual history and beauty and stark grittiness of it all. Australian cities can't come close, truly.
And then some days, I remember feeling so homesick for this place, and why;
Lauren says my backyard smells like therapy right now; orange blossoms fading from our tree, faint jasmine wafting over from next door. And I sat on the back porch last week, drank my cream tea and watched the thunderstorms come in off the mountains, and smelled that electric wet smell London never got. It's not that our sky is so much bigger. It's just England's sky is so small.
I wake up next to Matt each morning, and our bedroom - larger than any I saw in London, is flooded with sunlight. I talk to my friends here, go to dance class, spend hours fiddling on my sewing machine.
Sometimes I feel like I've lived my entire life liminally; torn between two (or even more), always floating around the edges of each.
But I find myself desperately missing aspects of London at odd moments. Monty Python episodes on DVD make me homesick for that grim vista near London Bridge, for the tiny terrace houses and casual intermingling of people and accents that was the East End.
I miss my friends, I miss the feeling of possibility in the air, I miss the fantastic shopping, the casual history and beauty and stark grittiness of it all. Australian cities can't come close, truly.
And then some days, I remember feeling so homesick for this place, and why;
Lauren says my backyard smells like therapy right now; orange blossoms fading from our tree, faint jasmine wafting over from next door. And I sat on the back porch last week, drank my cream tea and watched the thunderstorms come in off the mountains, and smelled that electric wet smell London never got. It's not that our sky is so much bigger. It's just England's sky is so small.
I wake up next to Matt each morning, and our bedroom - larger than any I saw in London, is flooded with sunlight. I talk to my friends here, go to dance class, spend hours fiddling on my sewing machine.
Sometimes I feel like I've lived my entire life liminally; torn between two (or even more), always floating around the edges of each.