A week and a half after leaving the house in Sydney that my boy and I have made home, I have re-discovered the benfits of single-living in a female share house.
a) Not totally alone but have plenty of free space.
b) Can watch the tackiest movies without fear of ridicule.
c) If I feel like nothing more than a boiled carrot for dinner, I can have one.
d) Running around in undies and t-shirt is de rigueur.
e) The only person you are accountable to is the cat.
So far so good. But Norwich isn't all riverside wilderness, overly enthusiastic cottage gardens and roundabouts. This morning's revelations included the misfortunes of combining a hangover from a 1am pass out with a 5am sunrise.
Summer in England is great. The head of the research group I have barnacled onto had a BBQ at his house last night. We started at 5:30, and ate and drank and played stupid games in the backyard until we ran out of light. It was pitchblack before we finally gave up on the soccer. And that was well gone 10pm. Then we could really settle into the fireside drinking. Six hours of steady wine drinking needs careful management, however, and four hours of sleep isn't it. Especially when the blinds don't block out anything other than the neighbours' eyes. Especially when said blinds are pink. And the wall paper is pink. And the bedding is pink. And the ceiling, while white, has this strange light cast that seems to be on the rosey side of the scale...
The sheer unpleasantness of the colour pink was a revelation that came pretty damn rapidly after the first. Can't wait for winter.
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