I won't write something long-winded and philosophical about the past two years. I'm back in Canada now, I barely wrote on this blog and I'm completely unapologetic as I was having an amazing time, living. That's what you need to know. That, and leaving the UK behind (but not forever) was the hardest thing I've ever done.
Now, I'm back to vaguely familiar places and somewhat familiar faces.
My Aunt told me,"Once you make somewhere else your home, you will always be on the wrong side of the ocean."
How true that is.
Anyway, enough about that.
Basically, I just want to complain about how I can barely get a good cup of tea anywhere.
And comment on the level of insanity I might very well be facing when actually considering ordering a 6 jar case of Branston Pickle for $60.
And tearing up when I finish the last hobnob (even though I can purchase them in nearly every grocery shop).
Picallili? Don't get me started. I found an ancient jar in my sister's fridge ("Oh that? That's some sort of mustard and pickled onion thing that Wes's mom made us ages ago. Neither of us eat it.") I devoured half the jar on rough-cut oatcakes in one sitting.
I miss the small things. I miss the big things. I miss a full English breakfast with my boyfriend at the corner cafe in Withington on a cloudy Sunday.
Because I feel like I'm on the wrong side of the ocean.
Now, I'm back to vaguely familiar places and somewhat familiar faces.
My Aunt told me,"Once you make somewhere else your home, you will always be on the wrong side of the ocean."
How true that is.
Anyway, enough about that.
Basically, I just want to complain about how I can barely get a good cup of tea anywhere.
And comment on the level of insanity I might very well be facing when actually considering ordering a 6 jar case of Branston Pickle for $60.
And tearing up when I finish the last hobnob (even though I can purchase them in nearly every grocery shop).
Picallili? Don't get me started. I found an ancient jar in my sister's fridge ("Oh that? That's some sort of mustard and pickled onion thing that Wes's mom made us ages ago. Neither of us eat it.") I devoured half the jar on rough-cut oatcakes in one sitting.
I miss the small things. I miss the big things. I miss a full English breakfast with my boyfriend at the corner cafe in Withington on a cloudy Sunday.
Because I feel like I'm on the wrong side of the ocean.
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