Here’s a post I never thought I’d write…
When booking my flights home for Christmas, my initial worry
was “will 4 weeks be too long?” Well, here I am having returned from those 4
weeks at home in England and feeling like I've been unwillingly torn away.
Strolling home from my last day at work before heading back
to England, I recall walking along the harbour path as the sun began to set,
the water gently lapped at the sand and rocks, and a kookaburra laughed somewhere
up above in the trees. How could I leave paradise for 4 weeks during the summer?
The morning I flew home I went for a swim in the pristine
waters of the tidal sea pool at the end of my apartment block. The weather was
27 degrees and clear skies. The thought of landing in ice cold London filled me
with dread. In fact, at that point, if someone had said to me “you don’t have
to go home now, you can wait until the British summer” I would've seriously
considered it.
Fast forward those 4 weeks and something in my brain has completely
switched.
Waking up on my last Friday at home in the UK, I was
overwhelmed with an ominous feeling – the only way I can describe it is that
feeling you get when you have an exam coming up which you know you’re not prepared
for. You pray for time to slow down and hope it just magically disappears
overnight. But it doesn't. I had just under 48 hours left of being part of a
family and having a group of ready-made friends.
That night I went for a final drink with a few of my besties.
Our chat ranged from the usual nonsense to the year ahead, my next visit home
and talk of people coming to visit me. I felt truly grateful for every second I
spent with them all. We said our goodbyes – and I was genuinely surprised at
how sad some of them were at me leaving. In fact, it hadn't hit me until I
returned home just how much people had missed me, and worse, just how much I
hadn't been there for.
Stupid Australia with its
not-as-great-as-the-ads-make-out-weather. Stupid ridiculously high salaries.
Stupid booming economy.
Less than 24 hours later I was speeding down one of
Heathrow’s runways. The plane felt heavy. (It was probably my extra bag of luggage
- made up purely of Cadbury chocolate and Boots goodies.) That day I had barely
been able to speak without feeling a lump up in the back of my throat. And now,
on this runway, it felt like I was being ripped away from where I wanted to be.
The polar opposite of the freedom I’d felt when I left of Sydney 16 months
earlier.
As the plane lifted up, I focused on the lights down below –
Windsor Castle dipped out of my view as we banked to the left (to the left) and
I closed by blind, unable to take any more of the torment.
Maybe there would be an electrical malfunction and we’d have
to land again. Just one extra day? But no such luck. The cheery pilot was soon
chatting away about the smooth flight ahead of us and how Hong Kong was going
to be warm and balmy when we arrived. Stupid Hong Kong.
The next several hours were spent staring at the screen in
front of me trying not to completely lose the plot (I've no idea what I
watched) and before I knew it I was back in my least favourite airport in the entire
world. Hong Kong.
Before I knew it I was back on the plane and landing in
Sydney. My heart sank as we disembarked from the plane. As the cheery hostesses
welcomed us to Sydney and all I wanted to do was punch them in the face.
And here I am. Two days later, back at work, and feeling the
most unsettled and weird I've ever felt in my entire life.
