I Don't Come From a Land Downunder

This year I have lived in Australia for a decade. That’s ten whole years of beaches, endless sun and the daylight savings for Queensland debate. And I’m a little bit perturbed to note, that little by little, my Britishness is slipping away.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m by no means an Aussie – despite what my second passport and citizenship certificate say. I still sound like an extra at the Rover’s Return when I order a pint, I love a good moan, and just this week I was asked if I could participate in a demo for a new BB cream as the translucent shade because I remain so bloody pale. But I know in my heart of hearts, that I can’t go back 'home'.

I can't go back partly because of my mum. She was the only real reason I was ever homesick; because you can easily find people to post you Pickled Onion Monster Munch. I wanted to go back home to live for a long time so I could pop in to my childhood house for a brew, good food cooked by someone else and a chat about clothes - pre kids. Then to to pop in and leave kid free to go and buy clothes - post kids. (Good cooked food no longer worries me. My children have demonstrated that you can survive perfectly well on yoghurt, cheese slices and sultanas alone. In fact, you can thrive and have more energy than that bloody pink bunny in a muscle T). But since she's not there any more, going back now would just make that mum sized hole I live with every day even more noticeable.

I can't go back partly because of the weather. A bit of rain and snow never bothered me; I’m from Manchester. I have a ‘big coat’. But now I have two fair weathered small people, I do wonder what the bloody hell I could do with them in lieu of heading to the beach or the park or one of the many free activities my local council put on, like this morning’s mini hip hop class. Actually, not strictly true. I know that all I could do with them would be to watch telly, swim at incredibly festy local baths or visit one or another version of the hell that is soft play. It doesn’t appeal.

I can't go back partly though, because I am just no longer British enough.

Each time I go home, after the joy of not being on an aircraft and the first sweet and sour pot noodle has subsided, I realize that things are just a little, well, foreign.

I can’t drive down the impossibly narrow roads and I sure as hell can’t park in the impossibly small spaces.

I don’t know who anyone on the cover of Heat is or where you get the best pick n mix now that Woolworths is no more.

I feel marginally uneasy about the amount of sugar they put in baby porridge and downright angry at the POME version of a flat white.

But there’s exactly the same kinds of things that jar here too.

That anyone would even allow a sign declaring 'Brekky 6am' to be made, let alone put up for all to see horrifies me. It’s breakfast people, breakfast. And while we’re at it Aussie Vogue, you should be ashamed of your use of the abbreviation of the word sunglasses in your fashion edits. Sunnies indeed. Good god.

How people can calmly debate whether it’s a snake or a legless lizard in your yard mystifies me. Just fucking run people. Run!

And don’t even get me started on the shambles that passes for high street fashion over here. Yes Sussan, Supre and Noni B I am thinking of you. And your equally shit and overpriced cohorts.

Essentially, I am always an outsider. A round peg in a square hole. I live a weird, disjointed kind of existence culturally, that feels a bit like I'm always wearing clothes that are just a little ill fitting.

As a result, I seem to have amassed a disproportionate amount of Brits, Kiwis and South Africans whom I hang out with. And while many of the Brits are southerners and the Kiwis and South Africans say and do weird things too (like call flip flops jandals and eat jerky) they are kind of 'my tribe' as well.

They can’t turn a blind eye to spiders the size of cats. They don’t feel entirely comfortable around blokes in stubbies so short you can see the tip of their penis poking out the bottom. They remain bewildered that a seemingly civilised country can have so many ex Prime Ministers and yet so few crisp varieties.

So here’s to all my fellow outsiders in this land down under. Parenting without the grandparents on hand, taking absolutely exhausting holidays in their home countries and wondering how the actual fuck they’ll ever have anything besides DNA in common with their Australian offspring.

#Emigrate #Society #Culture #Belonging #Australia #British #ExPat