I want out. I’m over this whole training program, I’m over London, I’m over waking up each morning in that hotel bed, over catching that same over-crowded tube every morning, over this little niggly things that get to you when they build up some steam over time.
I’m over the taste of the water, which is crap. I’m over the crap food. I’m over the old buildings. I’m over the lack of good options for lunch. Over autumn in October, over talking platitudes all the time, over the grey skies and tiny streets and the sheer quaintness of it all.
I just want to get home and sleep in my bed and watch my familiar TV and play my familiar games and eat my familiar food. I’ve never missed mum’s food like I do now. I’m waiting, waiting waiting to be back home, back with the family, back with my old friends, habits ever unchanging. I want to get back to my car and drive down to the beach and jump in the water and enjoy the sun.
Living in a different country is something I’ve always wanted to do.
And when I’m not feeling like I just want to go home and lie down, I’m loving the fact that I am here, that I have so many people around who are always willing to get out and about and have fun, that I am so centrally placed in a large city with a comprehensive transport network, that all this is basically a holiday and the last chance I’ll really get to learn new things in a classroom-esque environment (though I never feel that I could return to study). It’s like I’m bipolar about it.
And I really know that all I need is some good food from mum (and all the things that go with that) to solve the problem, dammit.