I am a little unused to, but far from not enjoying, this feeling of doing nothing. It’s hard to believe I was working in South Melbourne a mere four days ago, unfathomable that I have just packed my entire life into two suitcases and a box (which I didn’t even get to bring back with me but that’s an entirely different story), like a dream that I was getting on that plane just yesterday.
I’m sorry I disappeared without a word to so many of you. Packing, cleaning and vacating a two-storey house while still trying to maintain the rest of my life – not to mention my full-time job – hasn’t exactly left me with a whole lot of time for socialising this past week. Besides, I’ll see you again.
I don’t like goodbyes. I suck at them, not least because I usually spend the entire time resolving not to cry, trying to hold back the tears, letting loose the waterworks and then being thoroughly embarrassed. The best way to deal with it, I’ve figured, is simply to reduce the number of witnesses. I determined not to think about it the night before, resolved to stay dry all through the early hours of the afternoon, and finally gave up somewhere around 1.45pm in the middle of Swanston Street. I’d stuck it out for all of 1 hour 15 minutes.
I should have known it wasn’t going to be my day. After paying $200 for excess baggage and abandoning 9kgs worth of shoes despite having paid for a business class upgrade, I was picked for a random bomb check going into the departure hall, and they didn’t even serve ice cream for dessert on the flight!
Crying? Said the security guard going through my handbag in case I decided Anya Hindmarch would be the perfect resting place for dynamite. Yes, I said, having given up all pretenses of not crying an hour earlier. Family? He wanted to know. Yes, I said. It was easier than trying to explain and besides, it wasn’t all that far from the truth.
