My name is StrawberryFrog,
and I daylog
Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to me. Clap. Right, let's move on. I wrote a bit of whiny self-indulgent stuff, but I'm not posting it. I have accomplished a lot of what I set out to do this last year, am pleased with that, and am working on the rest.
Q: What’s the difference between an emigre and a refugee?
Think of me as just another displaced person. One of the lucky ones, with a valid passport to wave at the border guards. It’s not a question of right or belonging. It's what you can get away with.
Birthday presents: I read that the South African government is cracking down on the practice of holding two passports, and I read today that I have until the end of the week to choose my nationality. Let's see – entire European Union or single African country that would have me back anyway as they always need skilled workers? Erm, surprisingly tough choice, seeing as how I have always said I’d ditch the SA passport in a heartbeat if it came to this. I am able to walk away from things easily, but I hate to close the door behind me.
So am I happy? Happiness is overrated. I wasn’t happy there. I'm not unhappy now.
London; Winter. At noon, the sun is maybe thirty degrees above the horizon. It gets dark around 4pm, Daylight Saving Time. Daily it creeps earlier. Maybe you see this as normal, but I find it abnormal. I knew winter would be the most difficult part of living here.
I am fascinated by this metropolis, still bustling with open hairdressers and the smell of curry from Indian restaurants at 6pm in the cold dark misty gloom.