I have discovered 2 things that are absolutely essential to enabling me to write anything of substance. Without these 2 key ingredients my mind simply will not function and everything I write is, to put it delicately, shite. "What are these magic supplements?!" I hear you cry. "Are they Jameson's, marijuana, crystal meth? Do you start with Absinthe and finish by sniffing a Pritt Stick?" The answer, naturally, is a cup of Yorkshire tea and M&M's (the plain ones).
Now, admittedly, I wish I was a little more rock and roll than this. Part of me longs to be the kind of writer who goes on a 5 day bender which starts in my living room and ends with me looking like Jonathan Rhys Meyers with my fly undone and vodka splashed down my top, walking glassy eyed through the streets of London on a genteel Sunday morning. I do feel, however, that this kind of behaviour is somewhat frowned upon when you are working in the fitness industry. Somehow I'm not sure that my brilliant script on Mastery in Layer 2 would be as well received if it was submitted saturated in Tequila.
(Spoilsports).
A New Zealander recently remarked to me, "you British always say that you're skint. But you always manage to have money for beer and fags." Yes. This is part of our great British heritage. Lesson #1: know your priorities. In the words of 2 of our greats - Liam and Noel Gallagher - it's a crazy situation/ But all I need are cigarettes and alcohol... sometimes being in the land of the clean and healthy - New Zealand - you can forget what your roots are. I spent my entire Sunday this weekend watching back to back episodes of Cracker from 1993. The sight of Tesco's shopping bags, people smoking in pubs, council flats, the sheer misery on everyone's faces... I felt like I was right back home again. It was amazing.
Speaking of amazing, I've recently noticed that I've adjusted my vocabulary to being much more positive than it was when I lived in the UK. Instead of just replying "OK" now, my standard response is "great!", "perfect!"... "everything is awesome!" It's definitely a cultural difference. We Brits communicate by moaning; sharing our misery is how we bond. I recently remarked to a colleague that the question "how's it going?" in England would often elicit the standard response "oh, you know, same shit, different day". We don't view this as negative. It's just a flippant, amusing response. You know, like we say "living the dream". We don't actually MEAN we're living the dream. And if you do mean it, we think you're a wanker.
Lesson #2: the glass is half empty at all times. Even when it's half full, some bastard's probably gonna come and knock your drink over anyway. Tossers.
The longer I'm away from home, the more I start to feel like an alien in both worlds. In New Zealand, I'm the Brit who sounds like Posh Spice. As my friend delicately remarked to me recently, "you know, sometimes when you talk, all I hear is accent". At home, all the bars are changing names and people are getting pregnant and it all seems very far away. To them, your voice sounds weird. As the office princess told me, "I'm trying to work out what's going on with your accent. You sound American crossed with Australian. I feel like I'm talking to Alf Stewart". Not Kylie Minogue.... Alf Stewart.
This is the same girl who asks me every time we skype, "have you married an Aboriginal yet?"
One thing I'm not missing is the great British bureaucracy. I sent my UK passport back to Liverpool 6 weeks ago to be renewed. And they still have it. The problem, it seems, is that my US passport has my full name Sarah CATHERINE Shortt on it, but my UK one doesn't. So now they think I'm an imposter and have demanded not one but TWO copies of my birth certificate to prove that I am who I say I am. Apparently my original birth certificate wasn't proof enough - so I had to have it reissued by the registry office at a cost of $50. I don't know why I didn't put my middle name on my original UK passport. Perhaps I was tired. I was relating this story to the Physiotherapist along the lines of "those IDIOTS at the UK passport office..." and he interrupted me to say "I'm wondering who the idiot in this story is." Who knows if I'll ever get my British passport back. Then I'll just have my American one and I'll have to move to Iowa where they'll be even more positive than Aucklanders.
Bloody hell.
