Why is it that you mention to somebody in Melbourne that it's 28 degrees, sunny, without a trace of humidity in the air and a lovely breeze, that people tell you to...
- go away (this happened)
- shut up (this happened)
- fuck off (this happened)
- go to hell (this happened)
- stick a thistle up your bum (this happened)
- or just hang up the phone on you? (and yes, this happened too)
All of this has happened to me this week.
Is it because it's cold and wet and rainy in Melbourne?
Darwin in June is a marvel. The weather is almost perfect. It's not too hot. Not too wet. Nice and sunny. Cool nights, warm days. People are happy. You're not drained by the humidity. You can sleep at night.
It's good.
But I'm going home in a few hours. Back to cold Melbourne and a stroppy pussycat, who will be happy to see me after he's given me an hour or so of sass, abuse and a solid dose of the "poor me, you left me with that child, you bitch." (He's a cat, that's what they do.)
I'm a bit torn.
As much as I'm looking forward to my own bed, my friends, a long weekend and the knowledge I can walk the streets at night safely, I'm going to miss the wonder that is turning up to work in light cotton dresses and Birkenstocks. I will be wanting to go and get an ice cream in the evening because it is warm and it is what you do. I'm not going to like having to put on ugg boots and a thick dressing gown when I get up first thing in the morning.
Then I realise how lucky I am to have this job and that I get to live two lives.
Today's song:
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