Given the amount of time I spent lying in bed feeling sick and/or miserable this year, my general feeling about 2014 is that it was a bit of a write-off and not much happened… but actually, stuff DID happen. Lots of stuff. Significant stuff. Here are ten things.


I was in my pyjamas and he used a hair-tie instead of a ring. Talk about spontaneous.


No regrets. I had a great three-month break in Cape Town, and the fact that I was (rather unfairly) evicted from the UK is going to be a good fireside tale for the rest of my life.


The wedding hasn’t happened yet, but the paperwork was done two months after the engagement. I wore a dress.


Learned a lot, confronted my fear of answering phones and even got to meet some authors.


A long weekend away in Brighton, a week away in north Wales, two trips to Guernsey and a day-trip to Sark. I also discovered many great things in London, which still feels very new to me.


So it’s not full time and it’s not lucrative, but it’s something and it’s a challenge and I’m good at it. I got some other freelance work, too.


Attended some life-drawing classes, went to David Mitchell’s The Bone Clocks book launch, saw Wicked and 1984 at the theatre, enjoyed a feminist meetup in a pub, ran three times a week (until I got sick/sad), spent time with various friends and family members on their trips to London, etc.


Well, at first I didn’t, but then I did, and now things are getting better! 🙂


Not as much as I should’ve/could’ve, but I feel like I’m more connected now than I was a few months back, and I’m deeply grateful to everyone who has reciprocated.


This has been tricky, especially in the circumstances, but things are falling into place and I’m starting to look forward to this sentimental life event. It’s going to be wonderful to have so many special people together in one place.

2014 was not an easy year. I didn’t achieve all (or even most) of what I wanted to achieve, but I did learn a lot and I feel like I’ve set myself up for a pretty interesting year in 2015, with a stronger foundation of self-awareness and a better focus on health and happiness. Thanks to everyone for their positive contributions to this year. No matter how small or distant those contributions may seem — a Skype call here, a comment there — they are very much appreciated and they make a big difference.




Stuff happened! Stuff is happening!

Hey, blog! Stuff has been happening in my life! I’ve barely left the house since my last update, but still… stuff!


Yep. My secret dream of rocking the boat by spawning a few illegitimate children one day has been crushed by a marriage proposal, which I obviously accepted because it came from this guy:


The event happened quite spontaneously and without too much pomp and/or ceremony (I was in my pyjamas and he used a hair-tie instead of a ring) as a result of the second point of stuff, which I shall detail below. I am extremely happy. As I was saying to a friend, nothing has changed, but everything has changed. It’s a weird feeling.

The customary ring pic. BLING.
The customary ring pic. BLING.


My application for a UK residence permit was denied because the home office feels that there is insufficient evidence that my relationship with an EU citizen is a durable relationship. We provided plenty of evidence, short of giving them access to our Facebook profiles and our mutual friends’ phone numbers, but these people are unbelievably full of shit and have rigged the system to make it as complicated, unfriendly and unfair as possible, so that’s that. It doesn’t matter that I have extended family who are British or that most of my ancestors are British. It doesn’t matter that my parents emigrated here with me in the 1980s and then moved back due to unforeseen circumstances. It doesn’t matter that I’m a hard-working, educated person who is enthusiastic about making a positive contribution to the country. I’ve grown up immersed in their culture and literature. I love London; it’s a world city with a rich history; it’s a fascinating, diverse, cosmopolitan homebase and a launchpad to everywhere. I want to be here. But none of that is of any consequence. I have been told that I have to leave the UK and they’ll only return my passport to me at the airport upon my departure.

We could appeal the decision, but we didn’t do anything wrong in the initial application, so we don’t see how an appeal would help, and we can’t afford the lawyers who could have the decision overturned. (We spoke to some lawyers and they agreed that it’s unfair and were confident that they could undo it, but the price of their services is just terrifying.) The appeal process can take such a long time that we might as well go for option two, which is us going back to Cape Town, getting married (because even getting married in the UK is not without bureaucratic difficulties) and then Luc heading back while I start the whole business over again: getting another family permit to get back to London and then applying for the residence card again as a married woman. More than six years together, four years of cohabitation, multiple joint tenancy agreements and utility bills (etc etc) weren’t enough to prove the durability of our relationship, but hopefully marriage will be.

We will overcome this problem, because Luc has a good job here and I’m not going to let him quit that job on my behalf. I will live here with him, legally. It’s not a matter of if, it’s a matter of when. I will succeed. But this doesn’t do away with the bitter taste in my mouth. If it wasn’t for Luc’s job and the fact that I’ve met some really wonderful people here, I’d actually quite like to  give the UK the finger and go live in Canada instead. They’ve chucked a massive stumbling block right into the middle of an important part of my life and currently non-existent career, and I’m not happy about it.

Life goes on, though. I’m just one of the countless masses who have experienced crap treatment by lowly bureaucrats, but in comparison to many (if not, most) others, I have managed to get off quite lightly. I haven’t been persecuted or treated as sub-human (only sub-British), so I’m still lucky. Plus, it was this situation that made Luc rush home from work and pop The Question, so the 8th of January was redeemed.


I’ve been doing some online editing from home for a company that filters a huge tidal wave of assorted articles, and that’s been keeping me busy and somewhat sane. Since my internship ended, I’ve been terrified about descending into a depressed state again and there have already been moments when it felt like that was happening, but I’m fighting it off with work and with a part of my brain that I’ve geared up specifically to resist such a descent. Everyone knows that stress and depression are unhealthy, and I get charming physical reminders of that fact. Aside from the common back tension and digestive complaints, my skin also goes completely, horrifically haywire and my jaw problems become very intense when things aren’t running smoothly, and it’s just not worth it. I’m trying to keep my health at the top of my list of priorities. Every time I feel like I’m sinking mentally, I just remind myself how much worse I’ll feel physically if I let it happen. I seem to respond better to physical consequences rather than mental ones. Knowing that I’m in danger of losing the will to live doesn’t light a fire-cracker under my backside, but the prospect of getting even more spots than I already have does, for some reason. Focussing on physical well-being seems to be working so far. I also painted my nails, bought some strawberries, put up a string of fairy lights along the wall… little things, little things.

Edible happiness.
Edible happiness.

I’ve had a few good social engagements this year, one of which was a wonderful Sunday roast with some people I met through my internship. I ate delicious things I’ve never eaten before and introduced them all the wonders of the South African Peppermint Crisp tart, made with ingredients from one of the South African stores in Wimbledon. It was a very good day and one of the memories I’m filing under Reasons Why Living in London is Lovely which is still a bigger list than Reasons Why Living in London is Not Lovely, despite the valiant efforts of the home office to tip the balance. On my most recent meetup with my dear travel-blogger friend Kasha (during which we sampled some bread pudding with tea at a tea room in our local park), I saw my first ever totally frozen puddles. I found this very exciting. That said… where is my damn snow?

Winter is... here?
Winter is… here?

We’re waiting to hear back from the home office to find out when they’ll be receiving my passport from their secure location (what the hell?) so that we can reschedule our flights to Cape Town, far away from any frozen puddles. Even though this whole affair has put another dent in my career prospects (something I’m trying very hard not to think about too much at the moment) I am so looking forward to seeing my family and friends on the other side of the world. I’ve been in touch with many people recently, especially since the whole engagement thing happened, and I can’t wait to see some faces, share some drinks and make some new happy memories to chase the admin blues (or greys) away.

Love love love. So much of it. Onwards!

London: Six Months In.

As of Monday this week, I have been in London for six months. It has gone astoundingly fast and astonishingly slowly at the same time. This is how change works. If I found myself in my family’s living room this evening, sitting on the couch, watching TV, eating bobotie and drinking red wine, with my mom, dad, brother, grandfather and fluffy old cat somewhere in the scene, I don’t think it would be hard to imagine that this entire London episode has been nothing but a strange dream. And yet… I heard that Sun Valley mall got knocked down a few months back. I know my mom swapped the contents of two rooms in the house after I left. People must have longer hair by now, or new haircuts. How much can a person age in six months? I still picture everything as it was, but how many things (little things and big things, insignificant things and important things) have changed? Would I be able to assemble all the old friends in the old places and have everything be as it was before I left? I doubt it. Am I the same as I was? I think I am, mostly, but with additions. And subtractions.

When I am asked anything about my life in South Africa by Londoners, I find myself feeling as though I’m speaking about something I’ve made up. It’s already abstract. If I want to, I can imagine myself walking up and down the aisles in the old local shopping centres; I can mentally go through the contents of the bottom drawer that used to stand beside my bed, or following the route from Fish Hoek, over the mountain, all the way to UCT and then walk around the Arts Block where I spent most of my days as a student; I remember the feel and function of each door handle in my old house… But when I think of my life in South Africa as a whole, it dissipates; it’s like trying to nail down a ghost. And it terrifies me to realise that this is only going to get worse. Or better? I acknowledge that in many ways, forgetting is healthy. This is a lesson I’ve learned well. I don’t keep old emails, chat logs or text messages from other people, because reading people’s words from the past bring them right back into the present, and that’s not always a good thing. I only make an exception for some special sentimental correspondence that is unambiguously positive. I generally prefer impressions to persist alone, open to remoulding and natural evolution without the influence of the unchanging pieces that originally created them. But does this lesson even apply here? I don’t know.

Self-Interrogation Time!

Do I miss South Africa?

It’s not a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ question. I miss my family. The fact that I haven’t seen them since April has been very difficult. I have a close-knit family, and sometimes, realising how far away they are seems to take all the air out of the room and make me feel quite dizzy and sick. I miss my friends and the easy, casual comfort of a social circle I worked myself into over many years. I’m not good at making friends and I’m terrified I’ll never have a circle like that again. I miss being a local; having my accent blend in and knowing all the details that locals know about the place where they’ve grown up. I miss the cultures and the languages and the geography and the climate and all of those things too, but they’re less pressing. And there are lots of things I don’t miss at all. I can live without South Africa because I feel like I’m lugging chunks of it around with me all the time anyway. I don’t yet know if I can live without some of the people I’ve left behind. Time will tell. Life goes on in my absence; events are going to happen that I want to be a part of, but I can’t. And my parents are going to get old. And people I know and love are going to get sick, and die, and I might not be there. It makes me feel cold. Nobody said it would be easy, and I can confirm that it fucking isn’t.

What is the best thing about being in London?

It’s London! It’s amazing. So much to do and see, so much history, so many beautiful buildings and parks, so much happening. In practical terms, the public transport is right up at the top of the list of awesome things about London. The feeling of freedom (at least within zones 1 to 3 covered by my Oyster card) is fantastic and I love not having to drive. The obligation to drive was an enormous source of stress and fear for me in Cape Town and it’s wonderful having that out of my life. Also, there’s something exciting about the tubes… When I’m not in auto-commuter mode and I actually flick my brain on and think about it, I feel incredibly inspired and proud and amazed by the whole business. I’m in London, under the ground, hurtling down a tunnel in a metal tube with hundreds of other people, people from everywhere, going places… There is history in these filthy tunnels, and you can see it and feel it (and smell it). Humanity in transit, humanity on the move, humanity at its most interesting. I won’t go into my occasional experiences of tube rage, because it would totally spoil the tone of this paragraph. *ahem*

Just one of the ridiculously amazing views of London that I get to enjoy every day at the internship.
Just one of the ridiculously amazing views of London that I get to enjoy every day at the internship.

What aspect of the immigration has been the most difficult?

My first instinct is to say ‘homesickness’, but in all honesty I think ‘unemployment’ has been just as difficult. The internship has eased the feelings of uselessness, idleness and frustration at a lack of personal enrichment, but having no income is a massive pain in the bum. If I had an income, I could plan regular trips to visit my family, which would ease the homesickness considerably, but I can’t. Luc’s income is paying off emigration debts, feeding us, clothing us, putting the roof over our heads and even allowing for some luxuries (including a nice pair of boots to get me through the winter), so of course it could be far, far worse, but without me earning, we can rarely experience anything in London that comes with a fee, at least not without a healthy side-portion of guilt and stress; and we can’t leave London at all. I’m eager to explore the rest of England (and the UK, Europe, and the world, for that matter), but it will all just have to wait. My impatience gets me down from time to time, but I just need to keep reminding myself about how lucky I am to be here at all. These are all experiences worth having, even if they’re not exactly the ones I planned to have.

My boots, which I have worn every single day since I got them. >_> (from my Instagram)
My boots. I have worn them every single day since I got them. >_> They feel like warm hugs on my feet.

Am I happy?

Yes, overall. I’m not always happy, but who can honestly say they are? I have bad days and sad days and days where I wake up thinking up I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life and I want to go home immediately, but most of the time I’m happy and excited for the future. My relationship with Luc is as good as it ever was. He deserves a trophy for his patience with me, and his willingness to put up with my emotional volatility when he’s going through the same adjustments as I am, but with such calm and control. I tell him everything and we’re the best of friends and I would never have been able to do this without him (emotionally or practically).

Here he is on the tube, looking relaxed, as always. (from my Instagram)
Here he is on the tube, looking relaxed, as always.

What’s the plan?

Apply for more publishing (or literary agency) internships. Get more publishing (or literary agency) internships. Get a good CV and develop my skills. Become extremely employable. Get a job (in publishing or at a literary agency). Win at life. (?) That’s it, basically. I’ve chosen an extremely competitive job within an extremely competitive industry in an extremely competitive city. I don’t know what the timeline is here. Sometimes I fear it’s too long and I won’t be able to hold myself together (financially or mentally) until I manage to find work. I know that many other people looking for the jobs I’m after have done multiple internships and have much more experience than I do (and also usually happen to be a few years younger than me because they didn’t spend two years doing an MA in creative writing and another year copywriting and another chunk of a year sitting at home, jobless and internshipless, bawling their eyes out) so I’ve got a lot of catching up to do. It stresses me out and gets me down sometimes, but all I can really do is keep plodding on and hoping that someone, somewhere will give me a chance to prove myself. I’m trying to stay calm. It doesn’t always work, but I’m trying. That’s the career plan. As for the everything-else plan? Well, most of it hinges on the career plan working out. Watch this space.

Then there’s writing. I went to another creative writing workshop on Monday (the first since starting my internship in September) and it was good! I feel inspired and I’ve signed up for NaNoWriMo. I’ve been struggling to find the energy to write as much as I’d like to lately, and this has made me incredibly frustrated with myself. I don’t have an excuse. I just need to get my shit together and make it happen. I’m hoping that NaNoWriMo will be the motivation I need to end the writing slump. I’ve been reading so many amazing books lately, and the desire to write something that I’m at least half proud of has become incredibly intense. I have so many ideas for my WIP, I just need to get them into my laptop and mangle them until they make sense!

I thought I had a grand and poetic point to make in this post, but it turns out I don’t, so I’ll just leave it there and add ‘blog more’ to my ever-growing list of things I should do.

Love to everyone, near and far.

The London Eye (from my Instagram)
The London Eye.

(All pictures are from my Instagram.)

A really, really long ramble about mental health and stuff.

Most of this I wrote more than a week ago, but haven’t had the guts to post it until now. I still don’t feel entirely comfortable about posting it, but I think I should, so I will.


Getting the internship was huge for me. When I received the email saying I’d got it, I had to read it three times before I could believe it and then I cried a lot. And it’s not even a permanent job, or a paying one. I left my job in Cape Town at the end of March, arrived in London at the end of April and was then unemployed until this month. I didn’t expect the move to work out like this. With a bunch of academic achievements and a year of work experience on my CV, I was naive enough to think I’d snap up a reasonably good job shortly after arriving, like Luc (my boyfriend) did. After the first month or two, when I started realising that this wasn’t going to happen and how utterly stupid I had been to expect it, I started to descend into something that, I think, could be described as depression.

I’ve never considered myself to be someone who suffers from depression, meaning that it hasn’t been a prominent issue in my life so far. I’ve never had to take meds, I’ve never self-harmed… nothing like that. I’m lucky. I’ve gone through patches of seemingly overwhelming sadness, but I don’t consider this to be out of the ordinary. Conflict with people, relationship blues, the deaths of loved ones; these are things that affect everyone and my reactions to them are, I think, standard reactions; nothing that qualifies me to say that I “suffer from depression”. But the unemployment thing gave me a taste of what I imagine it must be like.

I’ve come out of it now, since getting that wonderful email, and I have a bit of perspective on the whole thing, so I feel like I can, and maybe should, write about it.

It was terrifying, realising that I was losing control of myself in a way that I hadn’t experienced before. I’d wake up some mornings feeling dead. I knew I should be looking for jobs online and trying to fix the main thing that was making me stressed and unhappy, but it got to the point where I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t concentrate long enough to read an entire job description, let alone write a coherent cover letter. I was stammering more than I ever have in my life. I was crying All. The. Time. Literally every day. Usually more than once a day. I’d try to get out when I could find the energy and when I did I’d feel a vague sense of achievement at having “done something”, but I wasn’t really enjoying any of it properly. I’d take photos thinking “one day I’ll look back at the pictures and be glad that I saw all these amazing things” but most of the time I can’t say I was too glad in the moment I was actually seeing them. I felt detached, walking beside myself, floating above myself, looking at my life as though it was someone else’s.

It got progressively worse and worse and I started getting a bit panicky, especially when the random crying became so bad that the skin under my eyes felt permanently raw and I’d find myself almost throwing up with the intensity of it. So I went on the internet and read a bunch of “How to Deal with Depression” guides and most of them recommended seeing a health professional at some point. I decided to do that, seeing as it would be free anyway. (Yay, NHS!) I made an appointment, citing my dysmenorrhoea as the reason for it and thinking I’d just mention the depression thing “by the way” at some point in the exchange. I almost didn’t. There were two doctors present during my appointment; the main one and a trainee. After getting a prescription for expensive painkillers that I had no intention of buying, and showing them a rash on my hand to buy time, the session seemed to be wrapping up…

Doctor: (perhaps sensing that I was holding something back) Is there anything else we can help you with?

Me: Well, maybe. Yes. I’m not sure. I don’t really know how to say it. Um. I’ve been feeling a bit depressed.

And then I started crying. Obviously. There was this horrible silence that seemed to last forever between the moment that the tears and snot started pouring out of my face and the trainee doctor getting up to fetch me an inadequate piece of tissue. While I was trying to mop up my face leakage, I started laughing and said something like “You see? This keeps happening. I don’t know what to do about it.” I was trying to keep the mood light and not make it more awkward for them than it had to be. I was already feeling terrible about the sky-high levels of awkwardness in there. It didn’t feel much like I was in control of the situation though; I was just watching it unfold like a cringe-worthy B-movie.

The doctor then went on to ask me a bunch of questions that I can’t remember. I told him about the immigration and feeling homesick and not being able to find a job and not knowing how worried I should be about my mental health. And then he asked me if I’d thought about suicide and I told him that I hadn’t, but it’s not really that simple, is it? I would never kill myself. There’s a lot I want to do with my life. I’m not scared of death (there’s nothing scary about non-existence… I didn’t exist before I was born and that was perfectly OK, so I’m not too phased about not existing after I die), but I am scared of dying, as in the actual process of becoming a corpse. I don’t like the idea of being gripped by pain or nervousness or fear in the last moments of my existence and I’m pretty sure that most suicides usually involve all of those things. Moreover, I would never kill myself because I couldn’t do that to my boyfriend, my family or my friends. I reckon I would rather trudge on, hating every second of my life and pretending to be ok for their benefit rather than hurting them by hurting myself… but, as I said to the doctors, I’m scared that if things keep getting worse, these might not seem like such big obstacles anymore. I said something to the effect of “I’m not suicidal, but on some mornings I don’t really feel like existing and I’m scared that one day I’ll wake up and I won’t care about my family and my friends anymore, and I won’t be scared of dying, and I won’t feel like putting up with this shit any longer, and then I don’t know what will happen. I came to speak to a professional because the internet said that that’s what I should do.”

And I was glad I did. We had a good chat, the two doctors and I, once the awkwardness had passed and my face wasn’t leaking so much anymore. They told me that acknowledging that things aren’t all right is a big part of the battle won, and a crucial step towards getting better. They gave me a form for blood tests (to rule out some physical causes of depression, I guess) and told me to schedule another appointment a week after getting them done. I never went for the blood tests and I never scheduled the appointment because I received word about the internship on the next working day and it was like lifting my head out of a vice. Within hours, I was “OK” again, and ever since, I’ve been thinking about this experience and picking it apart (as I tend to do with everything). I have a few thoughts about it.

Firstly: WHAT THE FUCK? Whatever I was going through was obviously not physical, because as soon as the problem I’d been fixating on was in some way eliminated, I got significantly better almost immediately. I’m still sad sometimes, I’m still incredibly homesick, I still cry some days, but I feel alive! Life is not a big black hole of pointlessness and despair anymore. I don’t hate myself. It’s great! The internship is not a permanent solution, and it hasn’t done anything to help with our financial predicament and the stress associated with that, but the change it triggered in my state of mind was profound.

This leads me to understand my previous state of mind as a sort of shroud of misery that I had pulled over myself. Surely if I had pulled it over myself I should’ve been able to throw it off just as easily? But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I required a change of circumstances in order to feel like myself again. I had pinned normality onto something specific and I couldn’t have normality again until that something had been earned. WHY? I’ve been giving that a lot of thought too.

It’s pretty fucked up how my self-worth had become so entangled in “what I do” as opposed to “who I am” that a four-month blip in my career path (if I can call it that) basically caused me to lose my grip. In retrospect, I’m ashamed of that, although there wasn’t much I could do about it at the time. One of the key things that kept triggering the bad spells was shame. I was ashamed. Having been successful academically, I felt like I had something to live up to. I wasn’t responding to pressure from other people to live up to their high expectations; I was having a problem living up to the expectations I’d set for myself. I think that a lot of people are susceptible to this sort of thing. We’re constantly being defined by our work and valued according to how successful we are in our careers. It’s bullshit. Ambition is good, but not when it starts to grind you down. Things aren’t always going to work out when and how you want them to. Learning to deal with that is important.

Feeling the way I did, I withdrew a bit from everything. I tried to keep up appearances online, but mostly I was just posting things into the cybervoid rather than interacting with people one-on-one. I fell out of touch. Not completely though. There were my parents and a few other people who I spoke to, online and offline, who really kept me going and got me through to the other side, even if the exchanges were infrequent, and even if they didn’t know all of this crap I’ve just typed here. The writing marathon in August was also a massive help, as it got my mind off of the job hunt and allowed me to feel like I had a purpose. And now I have an internship. I’m working hard, learning lots, getting out of the house every day and I feel GREAT. Exhausted, but great. Of course part of that greatness could be attributed to the fact that I can now say “I have an awesome editorial internship at an awesome publishing house in an awesome city” (which is pathetic, but sadly, due to the human condition, it’s also true) buuut I also feel great because I’m occupied and awake and I have perspective on things.

So, TLDR, THE POINT: I am now OK, but I wasn’t OK. I let a small amount of failure bring me really low, and it was a waste of time and energy and I kinda sorta partly blame society for helping me to get my self-worth tangled up in things that I can’t always control and don’t really define me at all. I might (in fact I probably will) find myself in a similar situation again, but I’m hoping that I can use the lessons I’ve learned to prevent the emotional apocalypse from manifesting itself in such a destructive way next time. If anyone reads this and can relate to anything in it and wants to talk to me about their experiences, please contact me. I’d love to chat and to help in any way I can.

Disclaimer: Obviously not all depression is like this. Everyone has different experiences and different needs and different methods of dealing with whatever they’re going through. I don’t think that my experiences are universal, nor do I think they are unique. I’m not an authority on anything.

Here's a pretty picture I took at Morden Hall Park with my camera phone. It has a sign-post pointing in various directions, so it's totally symbolic and shit.
Here’s a pretty picture I took at Morden Hall Park with my camera phone.
It has a sign-post pointing in various directions, so it’s totally symbolic and shit.

Deer in Richmond Park

Luc and I went to Richmond Park on Saturday and we saw deer, lots of them, munching on the foliage in the soggy sunshade. At one point, the largest, darkest stag pulled a mouthful of wet leaves from a low branch and the sun caught the spray of droplets around his antlers. It was so beautiful. The moment wasn’t captured on camera, but this was shortly afterwards, with a few droplets still visible:

Photogenic ruminant is photogenic.

I like the deer because they’re graceful but also very ungainly. One moment they’re gliding between the trees like magical unicorns and throwing meaningful looks over their shoulders at you, and the next moment they’re comically masticating a wad of muddy plant matter and then glaring at you with a face like this:


There was one that stared us down for a long time and then loped awkwardly across the path once we were out of the way. I felt a bit bad. The grass was equally green on both sides so I didn’t really understand its motivations, but who am I to question such an animal? I might not understand what makes one grass clump more appealing than another, but at least I’ve learned one possible interpretation of that stare.

Yeah, I’m looking at you. Move along.

Anyway. I surfaced a little bit this weekend. I’m not out of the ocean yet, but I’ve definitely managed to get my head above the murky waters, at least for now, and the deer at Richmond Park deserve at least some of the credit for that. I’ll be back.


I haven’t been blogging because if I were to blog without mentioning the fact that I have been feeling very weird, it would be a fake, forced sort of post, not at all true to what’s going on in my head, and I haven’t felt like blogging about that. But I will now. I still don’t feel like it, but maybe it’s worth writing these things down. Actually, it’s probably self-indulgent and pointless, but I’ve put one foot in it and I’m going to finish what I’ve started.

So. It’s not a good kind of weird. It’s a bad kind of weird. It has nothing to do with people and it has nothing to do with London. London is amazing and I know I’ve made the right move coming here. I miss the people who are far away, but the Internet is keeping me connected, and I’m lucky enough to have a great friend and a great boyfriend living here in London with me, both giving me so much support and companionship that I don’t feel lonely or deprived in any social sense.

If it’s not London and it’s not people, then what the hell is it? I’m not entirely sure. I can identify two aggravating factors: one is my lack of employment and my lack of progress towards finding employment (along with the predictable feelings of uselessness that accompany that whole business), and the other is physical.

When you have been on two very, very expensive and extremely unpleasant six-month courses of Roaccutane (not to mention the appointments with the dermatologist, the blood tests, the contraceptive pill, the antibiotics, and the ridiculously overpriced medicated creams) to sort out your acne problem and then you look in the mirror and your skin is worse than it was when you hit puberty, feeling a little bit bleak about it is possibly justified. It’s a physically painful condition and it punctures my already dodgy self-esteem.

Staying on the topic of my annoying body: my temporomandibular joint disfunction is worse than ever, the maxillofacial specialist’s advice and the dental appointments and the nightly use of my uncomfortable bite plate having had no effect whatsoever. Imagine your face being tense all the time to the point that it gives you headaches and tinnitus and your jaw clicking and cracking every time you open it, sending small, surprisingly loud shock-waves up the side of your skull… I’ve had this for a year and a half now and it’s not going away and sometimes it’s so bad, I’m genuinely concerned that it’s going to make me to lose my mind.

Apart from those two things, the unfamiliar weather has dried my skin out beyond the redemption offered by Nivea, I’ve been having disturbing pains in my legs that have motivated me to read up a little bit too much on the topic of deep vein thrombosis and pulmonary embolisms, and yesterday I got taken down by the mother of all migraines that sent me spiraling down into a pit of woe that, for at least two hours, I was worried I’d never find my way out of. A call from Kasha, and Luc arriving home from work shortly afterwards (plus a number of ibuprofen pills in excess of the recommended daily allowance) brought me back to reality and I was more or less human by suppertime.

All that said, I’ve been unemployed and physically run down before, and I’ve never felt like this. I am currently prone to random crying and I feel like I’m floating around, not exactly making contact with anyone or anything I’m interacting with. I’ve also been really tired. The desire to climb back into bed and go unconscious for a few hours instead of doing anything with my time is sometimes overwhelming. I haven’t written a word of my novel in over a week.

So that’s where I am. I’m in a weird place. I’m not sad, despite what the random crying might suggest. I’m just… weird. But today I showered, I phoned in to apply for a national insurance number, and I even walked to Sainsbury’s to get some essentials, so it’s already a big improvement on yesterday. Maybe tomorrow will be even better, and the next day better than that, and maybe then I’ll blog about something interesting instead of just blogging about myself and my mental health. Boring. Booooooring.

Luc and Kasha and I did go to a park this last weekend. It’s called Morden Hall Park and it’s near to our new place (which is awesome, by the way. I’ll blog about that too, once I’ve taken a few choice pictures). The park was beautiful and we sat on the wild grass that was full of little flowers and soaked up a bit of sunshine. When the sun makes its next appearance, I think I’ll go down there again and soak up a little more. Maybe that’s all I need.



London: First Week.

My first week in London is wrapping up and I feel like I should write something about it. In all honesty, I’m too lazy to put in the sort of time and effort required to write a worthy summary of everything that I’ve seen and felt. It deserves a thesis. Only today did we manage to buy the cables required for me to use my laptop here, and I’m itching to get back to my novel writing, but I’ll scrape out a few thoughts for the blog first.

I still feel like I’m not really here, like I’m going to wake up one morning in my bed, in Fish Hoek. At the same time, I feel like I’ve been here forever. I don’t know how to explain this properly, but maybe others who have done this sort of thing or who have experienced other major life-changes have an idea about what I mean.

The weather has been interesting. Bright and hot one day, and then grey and bitterly cold the next. Yesterday we got rained on and hailed on and then the sun came out a few hours later and the heated room became very stuffy. I thought Cape Town was the city of ridiculously unpredictable weather, but apparently London in spring is even more ridiculous! Sweats and chills aside, it’s always beautiful.

I’ve gone on a few mini walking adventures through parts of the city with Luc and with Kasha, and while I’m too ignorant and lazy to say exactly everywhere I’ve been and too forgetful to document all the sights, I can say that it is absolutely amazing here and I know I’m going to be tramping the place flat as the weeks go by. The atmosphere is enthralling and there is so much to see and experience, and so many places to go. I’m in England, but I’m also in the middle of the world, where it feels as though samples of humanity from almost every part of the planet have been assembled and stirred up into a colourful vortex of cultures and languages. It’s phenomenal.

Now that my laptop is up and running, I have to get stuck into the boring stuff too… the editing of my CV and the job hunt. I’ve been observing Luc as he goes through this process (though in a very different field to mine) and I’ve decided that, unlike him, I’m not too nervous about the interviews or the tests, but I’m extremely nervous about getting confused with the buses and tubes and failing to actually arrive at the interviews at all. I don’t mean to put myself down unnecessarily, but it’s true when I say that, when it comes to certain things, such as navigating the public transport of a strange city, I am very, very, very stupid. Luc’s brilliant at it. If he isn’t already working by the time my first interviews happen, I’m going to be dragging him along with me as a navigator.

This is pathetic. Such a profound week in my life and I feel like I’m capturing it by drawing with a stick in the sand. I guess it’s related to the reason why I’ve barely taken any photographs. I don’t want to see anything through my camera right now, and I don’t want to waste too much time fiddling with settings and bag zips. It’s too fresh for reflection. I’m overwhelmed.

The hard part is knowing that I can’t sit down with the family and chat about everything over a glass of red wine. I miss all my far-away family and friends already, and this is only going to get more difficult. That said, I am thankful to have Luc and Kasha in this wild little travel boat with me. I don’t think I’d be strong enough to do this without them. I know that this adventure is a good thing and I hope that my future blog posts about it are going to be a little less candyfloss and a little more British beef and potatoes.

Love to everyone, near and far.

End of Chapter One.

It’s my last day in Cape Town before I get on the plane to London to start the next chapter of my life. Happiness and sadness are violently wrestling, loss and gain face-punching each other, excitement and terror performing a mutual strangulation… There’ll never be any winners. I feel sort of frozen. It’s speeding towards me but I don’t know what to do to make the last hours count. Everything feels too profound or not profound enough. I’ve always been weird with change and this is my biggest change ever and I don’t really know what else to say about it.

I’m going to miss everything, but I’m excited to find out what’s going to fill the holes left behind by this separation. I’ll write more later, when the contents of my head slop sloshing around and I can skim stones across there again.

Love, love, love to everything and everyone.

My 25th Birthday Weekend.

On Friday the 15th, I turned 25. It was the first time I’d woken up alone in an empty dwelling on my birthday, but it wasn’t long before the Facebook posts and text messages started streaming in, so I didn’t feel too lonely. On my walk to work, I saw an albino squirrel for the second time in my life. It was climbing one of the trees in our complex and settled on a branch just above my head to check me out. Seeing as it was my birthday, I would’ve appreciated it being a little more cooperative and jumping onto my shoulder to pledge its allegiance to me as a faithful companion, but alas… I had to settle for the privilege of casting my eyes upon the snowy critter. My crappy phone camera refused to take a decent picture of it, and the white, overcast sky glaring behind it didn’t help, but you can sort of see it peeking over the branch at me:

Get on my shoulder, dammit!
Get on my shoulder, dammit!

I had lunch with my parents and Luc’s mom at this wonderful new place on second avenue called the Loco Lounge. The food was great and so was the attention to detail. With our teas and coffees, the sugar came in brown sugar cubes and colourful sugar crystals (in addition to the artificial sweetener option, of course), and for some reason, I found this to be very exciting. From my parents, I got some cash plus these beautiful earrings that my mom picked out for me. They’re silver with peridots dangling on the end and they can be threaded through all my ear piercings. I made this photo black and white because my ear was a bit red after forcing the chain through the last two holes, which aren’t used all that often:


I’d already had my birthday celebration the weekend before, while Luc was still in Cape Town, but a few old friends came by on the night of my actual birthday to keep me company. They bought me a cake, and when I wasn’t looking, they put some candles in it and started singing happy birthday to me and I felt terribly sentimental about everything at the end of the night. I’ve known some of these people for well over a decade now, and it’s going to be really hard leaving them behind next month. Making good friends is not something that comes easily to me. It takes me a long time to open up and get comfortable around people, and finding the confidence to overcome self-doubt and include myself in their social lives takes even longer. Sadness and sentimentality aside, I’m confident that we can always pick things up where we left off. Friends like these are friends for life, and the Internet makes the world a whole lot smaller anyway.

I spent Saturday with my family, where there was more good food and good vibes and good presents. This was the first birthday in many years that didn’t start with my paternal grandparents singing their ‘happy birthday’ duet over the phone, and these sorts of little things make me sad and sentimental all over again. I’m still getting used to not having my gran around. I did a bit of pondering about the absolute weirdness of life and the passing of time when my mom and I went through the box of my gran’s old photographs on Saturday afternoon. This picture of my grandparents is one of my favourites:

Johnny and Shirley
Johnny and Shirley

I’ve been working on a post about my gran’s death for a few weeks now, but I still haven’t felt like posting it. All in good time.

Anyway. I had a birthday. I blogged. The end. 🙂

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