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Thanks Australia

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Serenity and Courage

I spent last weekend in Cambridge for a good friend’s hen do. Aside from being a wonderful day filled with fun, laughter, and just being the perfect send off for her into the world of married life, it also involved me spending some time with a few school friends that I haven't seen for the best part of a decade. Driving back to London, I did a bit of reflecting on the last few years of my life, and I was shocked how emotional I became.

I thought back to my school and university days, of how unsure I was of myself, of how I would fit in. Being concerned that I wasn’t ‘normal’. Being even more concerned that maybe there was a reason why I never had relationships, why I was apathetic about the idea of having a boyfriend. Being petrified that I was gay, knowing what that would mean; knowing the repercussions with my family and being scared of the impact that would have on several of my more religious friends. Being confused, nervous, petrified. Being slightly amused that I was fulfilling the private girls school stereotype. Wondering if I would spend my life watching my friends settle down and never get the chance to find someone special myself. Not being able to process any of what I thought or felt, not having anywhere to go or anyone to talk to about it. Masking my distress with humour, pretending not to believe in love or happily ever afters. Telling people that spending the rest of your life with someone was an impossibility; and in reality just worrying that it was an impossibility for me.

It took me a long time to get to where I am now. I have a loving girlfriend. I have a core group of friends who didn’t even bat an eyelid at my revelation. Who accepted me for who I was long before I even knew what that meant. But there have also been losses. My relationship with my parents is possibly irreparably broken. I lost a couple of friends. A handful of others have never been the same. My expectations of life have changed. I don't fit neatly into any of the boxes you are supposed to fit into when you discover that you are gay. I didn’t know from a young age (although several of my friends have told me that they knew a long time before I did), I didn’t have a eureka moment. I haven’t now become involved in the “gay scene”. We don’t go out to gay bars, I still don’t really have any gay friends. I don’t even know how to refer to my girlfriend. I get uncomfortable referring to myself as gay. I can’t get the right words out. I have found this amazing woman who loves me and who I can finally imagine spending my life with, and yet I can’t begin to formulate words to describe it, or contemplate what us getting married would look like, what it would feel like to consider having children; what that process would involve. Before we moved into our current flat I had nightmares about the other people living in the street and how they would react to a lesbian couple moving in. When we have work done in the flat, I hate having to say “my girlfriend will be home” for fear of how people will react.

We live in a society, in London at least, where you keep your opinions to yourself. Thankfully I do not live in a place where I have to be concerned about my physical safety because of who I love. But this life is by no means is without its difficulties. I think it is easy to underestimate the effect of constantly being unsure how people are going to react. Of saying “my girlfriend” for the first time to someone new. Watching the moderated response. Assessing how this fits into people’s preconceived ideas of you as a person. Noting the raised eyebrows or pursed lips on the tube, seeing the curious glances from passers-by, hearing politicians debate aspects of your life in government buildings and having no idea how it will affect you as a person. Relying on other people to acknowledge your existence as a human being, to allow you the same rights as straight people, and expect you to be grateful for it.

I went to the Pride parade in London for the first time this year. It is easy to think that we are beyond a time where being gay is an issue. I think if you asked most people they would say that it is a non event. The vast majority of people who are on the receiving end of a coming out confession do not understand why it is still such a big deal. It is easy to forget how things were just 10 or 20 years ago. And I want to be grateful that things are easier for me now than they would have been then, but additionally I don't see why I should have to be grateful. There is definitely an air around that we should be appreciative of having the same rights, or being allowed to exist in the same civilisation as straight people. I am still in a place where I am uncomfortable acknowledging my sexuality, not because I am uncertain of it, or because I think that there will be an overt reaction to it, but because it generally makes everything harder than it needs to be. I am living with a deep sense of shame, and I don’t even understand why I should be apologetic. When I think rationally I acknowledge that there is nothing to be ashamed of in my life. There are only good things. I have a good job, I am a successful human, I manage to get out of bed every day, and I have an amazing person with which to share this crazy thing called life. But deep down, constantly, there is the feeling that what I am doing is wrong. Blame it on the Catholic school, blame it on the conservative parents, but in reality I should blame it on the whole of civilisation. This society that teaches us to be grateful for equal rights, teaches us relief when a stranger doesn’t raise an eyebrow, teaches us to be elated when we are allowed a vote on whether or not we can marry, procreate, inherit.

My girlfriend is Australian, and there is a lot of controversy surrounding the current Plebiscite for Marriage Equality. A lot of people I talk to about it don’t really understand why it is a big issue. Obviously I feel strongly about it because I would like the option of one day getting married in Australia. But, I also am seeing it as yet another demonstration of how my life is directly affected by people I have never met, making decisions about my core human rights, and not being able to do anything about it. No, we are no longer in an age where I can be arrested or killed for my sexuality, but we still have a long way to go before I can stop feeling ashamed of myself. And I hate that. So I guess at its heart this is a plea for people who do have the power to affect this; who get to vote on something that in no way directly impacts them, to give it the weight of importance it deserves and vote for those of us who are not allowed to have a say. Please don’t dismiss how important this is.

#marriage equality #plebiscite #australian marriage equality #lgbtq #coming out

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Thanks for all the birthday well wishes. Free Champagne and afternoon tea on the flight home- not bad for turning a quarter of a century old #classyliving

#classyliving

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Shonda Rhimes; the unlikely Prophet.

Today has been spent largely in my pajamas. 

Today has been spent largely thinking. 

I had drinks with a relatively new friend a few weeks back, and ended up subjecting her to a rant about everything that was wrong in my life. She is excellent, in that she didn't really commiserate or placate in the way most of the people I know would, instead she immediately set about problem solving. It came as a bit of a surprise, and I was a little narked as my whining was cut short. 

It occurred to me that I hadn't made an active decision about the direction my life was going in a very long time, if at all. I am the queen of avoidance. I have cultivated a baseline emotion of apathy about anything life altering or vaguely important. I let life decide my path for me and then complain that I do not enjoy what I am doing. It is cowardly. I never make an active decision, and therefore really have no right to moan about the outcome.  

I have thrown around comments about setting up a tea shop, half in jest, half out of desperation for something to actively strive towards. I didn't find medical school particularly challenging, and the job of being a doctor does not embody the same sense of achievement of fulfilment for me as it does for most of my colleagues. 

A good friend from Nottingham visited last month, and when asked what her job was, her reply took almost ten minutes. When I think of all the things she has done, it is baffling. She is the most proactive person I know. I want to be like that. I want to choose the direction my life takes, I want to do extreme, impressive things. Instead, I sit in my pajamas and watch back to back episodes of TV shows on my days off from a job that I am not sure that I want to be doing. 

Perhaps not a particularly prestigious person to quote, but the creator of Grey's Anatomy, Shonda Rhimes, spoke at a graduation ceremony at Dartmouth earlier this year. She appealed for people to 'stop dreaming, and start doing'. A nauseatingly cliche Americanism. But, also deeply insightful. We all spend a huge proportion of time wishing our lives were different. Dreaming about our futures. In the time we spend lamenting our reality, we could be affecting change. 

We are so lucky in our lives, with so many opportunities. I could go outside now, and shout my opinions in the street, and the most that would happen to me would be some odd glances from passers by. We live in a culture where it is okay to believe anything, to be anything, to want anything. Of course, we have not won the battle for equal opportunities, there is still prejudice and discrimination on our doorsteps, but in my immediate world, there is nothing I could be or believe that would endanger my life. I have a good job, I am not afraid to walk down the street alone, and I am able to have friends with varying different religions, beliefs, and sexualities.

We forget that life is not like that for many, many people. 

And I spend my days complaining about the fact that I don't particularly enjoy my well-paid, relatively well-regarded job that allows me to live well, eat well, travel well, and buy as many books, gin and cakes as I could possibly want. Grow up, Sheri.  Whether or not I enjoy it, whether or not I actively chose it, I am in possession of a skill set and a profession that can be used to hugely better the lives of many human beings. Whether I remain in acute medicine and go on tours with MSF or the Red Cross to war torn, famine stricken nations, or go into public health to brainstorm how to avoid pandemics like Ebola, or go into management to affect revolution in our treatment of palliative care patients, there is so much that I am able to do.

And it starts with making active decisions. It starts by owning my life. It starts now. 

#lucky #proactive #life #NHS

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What should be waiting at the end of every ED shift - gin, tonic, and gin cake.

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#ocaptainmycaptain

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A Good Death

Everyone has an opinion about the Euthanasia Bill.

For most people with an opinion, the number of times they will be affected by the bill in their lifetime could be counted on one hand. For me, in my current placement, it would affect me daily. I regularly deal with frail, elderly people with terminal diseases. On the whole, they are managed very well, and are often discharged to die at home with dignity, surrounded by their families, supported in the community.

However, there are regularly people who slowly waste away in side rooms in hospitals, with their poor families spending hours, days, weeks in a horrible limbo awaiting their inevitable, but strangely reticent, death. Desmond Tutu has recently been quoted as saying that a “dignified death is our right”. There is nothing dignified about a prolonged dying process. There is nothing sacred about the last few days spent rattling, gurgling and unable to communicate.

I recently had a patient who expressed the wish to die constantly. He was an elderly gentleman who had lived an incredibly full life and was immeasurably frustrated at his current inability to do all the things he wanted to. He was not coping at home, but refused help, and was repeatedly hospitalised due to falls or chest infections. He refused antibiotics for his third pneumonia, and eventually wasted away after a long period of discomfort in a side room in hospital.

Of course, the situation will invariably be more complex than this. The proposed Bill would allow doctors to provide fatal medication to people judged to have less than 6 months to live. As with everything in medicine, there are no certainties. There is new information emerging all the time; scans can be reported poorly and treatments can work better or worse than expected. Estimating survival time is my least favourite part of my current job in Geriatrics. You will inevitably be proven wrong by a patient living months rather than weeks or hours rather than days. People towards the end of life fluctuate regularly with regards to wishes and needs. They are scared. They are frustrated. They are dying. These are difficult situations. But just because something requires thought, and safeguarding, does not mean it is not worth implementing.

I am not suggesting that we approach terminal illness in any way differently with regards to our palliative care input, and our social support systems. These systems are, by and large, incredible, and hugely beneficial to both the patients and their families. However, I think that we have a right to make decisions about our own lives. We are already able to refuse life-prolonging treatments, we can say no to life saving procedures. However, we are unable to actively end our own lives, and that is contrary to our right to autonomy as human beings.

Bishop Egan is calling for group prayers across the UK prior to the discussion in the House of Lords. Apparently, legalising euthanasia would mark the “catastrophic collapse” of the respect for life. Unsurprisingly, I disagree.

As always, religious arguments that hinge on our lives not being our own to dispose of baffle and vaguely amuse me. The argument centres on the fact that God knows what is best for us; life is a gift from God and we should appreciate it. If we take this viewpoint to its full force then where do we draw the line with medical treatments? It is bizarre to me that it is deemed acceptable to do things to prolong our “God given” life, and yet not to shorten it. Surely if God should choose when we die then neither of these things are acceptable. Surely there is an argument that if God has given us the knowledge and ability to heal people, He would be in favour of us using that knowledge to hasten a hideously prolonged wasting away of a previously fiercely independent octogenarian with incurable metastatic disease.

Not all opposition for legalising euthanasia stems from religion. There are people who worry that allowing people the option of ending their lives will lead to a lack of respect for those who don’t, a pressure on the elderly to end their lives prematurely, a reduction in the importance of good palliative care and end of life management.

Safeguarded correctly, no one is going to be forced to die early. Just because euthanasia might be legalised does not mean it will be imposed on the whole population. If you don’t agree with it, then don’t choose it. But people should have the right to decide what happens to them in their final days, a right to die comfortably, quickly, and at a time of their choosing.

#euthanasia #good death #ethics #nhs #rant

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I wish our nurses did this!

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Perspective

I am beginning to feel as if I am living again. 

Much has occurred since my last post, I have attempted and failed at dating, I have changed house, changed specialty, basically changed my life. I had a pretty horrible few months on my previous placement, and I feel very much now as if I am coming up for air.

A selection of fairly shitty circumstances led to my last placement becoming a tremendous effort, and particularly towards the end I struggled to cope. I was hit with my first moral crisis in the medical profession - whether, when things go wrong, you should stand up and be counted in the face of your superiors, or whether you should defer to people in whom you have little confidence in an effort not to rock the boat. I am someone who struggles with staying silent, but I was also acutely wary of not becoming that person, the one who is intrinsically just a little bit irritating and constantly whining. It is a difficult line.

I didn't realise until I switched specialties how much it had been affecting me. People passing in the corridor remarked that it was nice to see me smiling again. I apparently now answer my bleeps with a more upbeat tone. I have begun to talk to old friends again; I never consciously stopped, it was just so hard to gather some form of happy vibe, and I didn't want every conversation to be depressing. 

In between all this, I got fed up with my lack of dating and joined a dating app. Arguably not at the right time considering all of my stresses at work. I had some hilarious experiences and met some really nice people, and it opened me up to so many new and exciting places in London that I would otherwise not have been to. Whilst I think it is naive to expect to find your soulmate on Tinder, I had a great couple of months, and it showed me that I can actually date, which was becoming a bit of a worry. Now that I am settled a bit more at work I might re-immerse myself in the dating world. I want to try speed dating at the science museum - it was actually one of the major factors in my move to London and I cannot believe in 9 months I haven't got around to it.

It is beginning to hit me how close I am to the end of my placement at Ealing. Although I regularly gripe about the place, and compare the facilities to that of a field hospital in Syria, it has its good points; namely the people, and I actually am grateful to have spent my F1 year there. I have learned an enormous amount, often under great stress and this has helped me grow as a person and develop a confidence in myself that I definitely needed. It has been "character building"... a phrase I used to detest as it is by and large used for uniquely crap experiences that you need to get a plus point from. 

Ealing has taught me many things. Obviously my medical expertise has increased exponentially over the last 9 months, but I have more importantly learned a lot about myself as a person. I was apprehensive about coming to London. Firstly I had this misguided view that all the grads in NWT would be snobby, stupendously smart and intimidating. Secondly I worried about my persistent inability to make good first impressions, and panicked that I wouldn't have any friends. Thirdly I fretted that I would be a horrendous doctor and kill someone in a dramatic fashion in my first week. 

Thankfully none of these things were true. I finally feel as if I am in a good place, and some level of confidence and optimism is sneaking in. A year ago I would never have believed I could cope with so much. I am immensely proud of myself, and grateful to be in a place where I can appreciate the positives of the past few months. I am looking forward to moving hospitals, but a little sad to be leaving a place responsible for giving me confidence in myself and a knowledge that I am, after all, capable of doing this job. 

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What's my age again?

Do you ever get moments when you feel the world is trying to make a point?

I recently have been impressed with my level of maturity. I have felt that I am finally at peace with becoming an adult, holding down a responsible job, wearing shoes that match my outfit, and mostly remembering to take a coat or an umbrella with me when the weather demands it. That last one I am still working on…

One of my life affirming moments recently was my first Ocado delivery. I have become one of those people. And honestly, I don’t know how I ever lived without it. Ocado might become my new religion. To anyone who will listen, I have waxed lyrical about their amazing delivery service, their colour coded bags for refrigerated and frozen items, their courtesy texts to let you know that they are on their way, what colour van they will be in and even the name of the delightful person that will be depositing your shopping in your kitchen for you. It has revolutionised my shopping experience. And as such, I have concluded that I am grown up.

And then, out of the blue, I have an experience in a supermarket that negates all of the maturity I have apparently developed. I was post nights, with a head cold, dressed in jeans that didn’t fit me and an oversized jumper that should definitely not still been part of my wardrobe, meandering around Morrison’s attempting to find the mince.

(As an aside, am I the only person who can never find anything in Morrison’s? Do their store designers get a kick out of shelving things in the most bizarre places? I often wonder if there is an undercover camera crew following me around, filming some sort of Punk’d-type show involving invisible eggs and relocating satsumas. Even when not ill and sleep deprived I find Morrison’s shopping a very stressful experience… it’s no Ocado, that’s for sure)

Anyway, I am bumbling around in a semi-asleep state, when I walk straight into a man who can only be described as a god. I think I must have stared for about a minute, which he found hilarious. After my initial apology for my lack of spatial awareness, we exchanged pleasantries along the lines of “Oh, I see you have mince in your basket – where the hell did you find that?!” and I went in search of said mince.

I later then passed him in another aisle, where he examined the contents of my shopping and quite correctly deduced that I would not be making an adequate meal from the contents. He ascertained that I was post nights, and offered to cook me dinner.

Now, this was the moment that it became abundantly clear to me that I am still just as ridiculous as ever, and although you can take a girl to London and have her working as a Doctor, you will never eradicate her social stupidity. I promptly turned around, abandoned my shopping and ran away to sit in my car.

My reasoning for this (yes, there was a reasoning process) was that I was currently so disgusting that only a mad stalker could possibly hit on me. And instead of acting rationally and maybe turning him down for dinner tonight but perhaps giving him my number or going for coffee or something a little less weird, I fled, then spent half an hour in the car park deliberating about whether or not I should go back in, and dissecting my ridiculousness on the phone.

I have spent a lot of time recently lamenting the dating opportunities of living in a big city and not having a lot of social time, and then an opportunity basically knocks me over in a supermarket no less, and I panic and run away.

I am definitely not an adult yet, and I still don't know where the mince is in Morrison's.

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London Underground

Just as I was beginning to think that I had successfully segued into this new, hip, London life, today I forgot my oyster card at home and was required to pay the unholy sum of 8 whole pounds in order to travel 4 stops on the district line. The whole scenario was made worse by the undeniable fact that the district line is an abhorrence and should be avoided at all costs.

However, I refuse to be disheartened by this occurrence, because the destination to which I was travelling is to be my new, hip, London rowing club.  I am exponentially excited about this, for a variety of reasons. It was my inclusion into the rowing club in Nottingham that really spurred my attachment to the city. There is something irreplaceable about being part of a large group of people, with a shared interest and such amazing variety of life experience.

For the last 6 weeks, I have been very much attempting to stay afloat in the face of an onslaught of stressful changes and general sleep deprivation. In all honesty, doctoring has not been at all as terrible as I was expecting. Despite the fact that there is far less support than I was led to believe; that I spend most of my waking hours terrified that someone is going to die; and that I honestly believe a language degree primarily focused on Punjabi would have been more use to me than 5 years of medical school, I am almost enjoying myself. The salary definitely helps.

Nevertheless, the job doesn’t particularly lend itself to a thriving social calendar. You have to make a huge effort to see people, and I have never been excellent at the beginnings of friendships. As a result of these two facts, I have spent almost every weekend outside of London, visiting various people in various cities. Whilst this has been a lot of fun, I feel I have not sufficiently embraced London life. I am still 100% sure that I want to return to Nottingham after these two years, but really I should give the big smoke a bit more of a chance.

I try to travel on the weekends because there is nothing worse than having nothing to do. With my new rowing club this is not going to be an issue. They train 6 days a week, with double sessions on weekends. This is a slight step up from the casual once a week pootle down the river I am used to.  The first month is going to be a bit of a shock for my poor body.

I feel a little bit like finding a new club was the last piece waiting to fall into place. I have survived, without major incident, the most difficult aspects of my new life. I have survived two horrendous runs of night shifts, I have managed to bring my bank balance above zero for the first time in several years, and I have settled on a specialty to aim for.

Now that I have selected a club, and am resolving to spend at least an occasional weekend in London itself, I feel like I can begin to focus on thriving here, instead of just surviving.

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Nothing endures but change - Heraclitus

When I arrived at University, I was at the tail end of a Catholic private school education, and an only child living in a town 20 miles away from where I went to school. As a result, I was not, “what-I-call” (thank you Miranda) normal. Nor was I remotely prepared for what University life was about to throw at me. Although this was HUGELY detrimental during my first term year at University, it did mean that the friends I made and the relationships I formed were achieved when I was at my weirdest and most uncomfortable, and I honestly believe that as a result I have found some of the best people in my life, who will hopefully stay with me for many, many years to come.

Say what you like about being privately educated by Catholics (and believe me, I’ve said most of it), I have taken away from my school life an unshakeable confidence and insurmountable self-belief, plus, I believe, strong morals and a sense of justice. I don’t know how they managed it, but sandwiched somewhere between the obligatory masses and fundraising fortnights, they managed to instill in me such a deep sense of right and wrong, not only in the abstract but also on a personal level, that I knew what I deserved and refused to settle for less.

As a result of this, despite my difficulties during my early days at University, I always knew that things would improve, and that I would look back with a sense of amazement, as I do now, recalling wanting to leave after the first week of this new life. How things have changed. Now, I can’t bring myself to imagine what my existence will be like when I leave Nottingham. I am once more thrusting myself out into a different world full of new possibilities and new challenges; and add to this the fact that I am now supposed to be a grown up and hold down a “proper job”, and the whole thing becomes a little ridiculous.

I have whined a little bit about the fact that nothing has changed in my life for a while. This is usually in reference to my persistent lack of enthusiasm for medicine, and general apathy about life itself. However, I am currently embarking upon the reality of becoming a proper doctor, and an upstanding member of society who does grown-up things like pay taxes, plan outfits in accordance with the weather (something I have always found tricky), and stop thinking that sharing bags of crisps are an acceptable substitute for a meal. I have to admit, change is inevitable, and pretty darn scary. Maybe I should have appreciated the lack of it while I had the chance.

In the abstract, I know that I am prepared for the next stage of my training, not least because I know what all the words in The Amateur Transplants song “Finals Countdown” mean. (for those of you unfamiliar with this song, there is a link at the bottom for your viewing pleasure… If you are a medic, and this is new to you, you may as well give up now – these guys essentially got me through Medical School), and I know that there are quite a few people less suited to the practice of medicine than I am. However, the nervousness still remains.

I worry a lot about what is to come, anxious that I won’t measure up to what is expected of me, apprehensive at the thought of doing the wrong thing – all of which echoes the feelings I had arriving at Nottingham for the first time. Experience tells me all will be well; after all, I have managed before. Plus, that school-induced sense of justice and self-belief should help me along the way.

I know that in reality the changes that have occurred have been insidiously proceeding without me noticing, like the cycle of our cells, constantly renewing and altering over time; but now that I have noticed that it’s happening, I would quite like it to stop. Or at least slow down. I need some time to pull myself together and prepare for the next step. A millennium might be long enough; the 4 days I have left definitely aren’t.

So essentially, I am asking everyone in Ealing to please not need surgery in the forseeable future. Thanks.

Amateur Transplants, "Finals Countdown": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ld3QiejKEKE

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Home is behind, the world is ahead.

In two days time, I will finally allow myself to be referred to as a doctor.

Last Friday I attended a family friend’s graduation from primary school.  Aside from the fact that is blatantly ridiculous (and nauseatingly American) to hold a graduation ceremony for 11 year olds, it was actually rather sweet. They read out their favourite memories from their time at the school, sang hymns together and then went out into the field behind the school and released balloons with their names on into the sky. It was quite lovely.

Our graduation will be a couple of hours of waffle in an insanely hot sports hall, at the end of which the 300-odd of us will cross the stage, bow at something, shake a hand and receive a fake imitation of our certificates. There will be no singing or sharing memories, and saddest of all, no balloons. At this point our graduation seems more ridiculous than theirs.

As per usual, I am not sure what I feel about the whole thing. I stand on the precipice of change. All that I know is about to alter: I will no longer be a student; I will finally gain the long awaited first paycheck. I am leaving behind the city I call home and once again throwing myself into a new world, full of fresh discoveries and experiences. I am beyond excited about my relocation; however, this is tempered by my sadness at separating myself from all the wonderful people I have found over the past 5 years. They say you never appreciate what you have until you lose it, and I definitely only realised how at home I felt in Nottingham once I made the decision to leave.

Still, leave I must, and I am definitely ready for a change of scenery. What I am less ready for is this whole ‘actually becoming a doctor and possibly occasionally having to practice medicine’ malarkey. I’m not entirely sure specifically when I made the decision to study medicine, but I am certain that I never expected to come out of the end of it as a doctor. I don’t know what I thought would happen along the way, but this is not the outcome I expected; I am currently having daily panic attacks about being incompetent, and getting trapped in a profession for which I have no aptitude or enthusiasm. I am attempting positivity. I am upbeat about my relocation to London, I am optimistic about the next few years as a whole, and am trying desperately to have a little more faith in myself with regards to the actual doctoring. Who knows, I may end up loving it.

At least one good thing has come out of the last 5 years. My grandad was admitted to hospital recently, and it was incredibly nice to be able to understand what was going on and explain it all to my parents, as well as knowing when we weren’t being kept up to date, and what to expect management-wise. So at least my time at medical school hasn’t been wasted.

I am trying to take the days as they come. It will be nice to have some photos with my excessively proud parents, and mark the end of a long time at University. It will be good to spend the day with people I love and celebrate having made it this far. I just hope it stays sunny!

[tea-and-apathy]

Homeward Bound

Things I will miss about Texas:

Chick Fil A. Honestly, a spicy chicken sandwich, waffle fries, Chick Fil A sauce and a lemonade were almost all it took to make me stay here forever.

Diet Dr Pepper. Proper lemonade. Root beer. Beverages are in general superior to those in the UK, except for American beer of course, which is disgusting.

People asking me if I’m having a nice day.

Country music playing everywhere

Hearing “Y’all”

American TV commercials, particularly those for medicine/health procedures, which typically end with a 5 minute dialogue on all possible side effect, unfailingly including blindness, coma and death. It’s a wonder anyone ever buys anything.

Everything is a drive through.

The food is excellent.

  Things I will not miss about Texas

My constant proximity to Chick Fil A which has made me outgrow a pair of jeans in three weeks

With the exception of the Dr Pepper, most of the delicious American beverages also greatly contribute to point one.

People don’t really care if you’re having a nice day.

I have begun to despise country music

Hearing Y’all

TV commercials are longer than the segments of shows that they intersperse.

I haven’t walked in three weeks.

I haven’t eaten a vegetable since my arrival. Someone point me towards the nearest carrot.

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Please pack your boomerang in checked luggage...

I am currently beginning the horrible ordeal that is travelling from anywhere to the United States. I am only at the departure gate and already this trip is 10 times more arduous than the one out to NZ from home. They actually weighed my hand luggage, which was ridiculous in itself, but not as ridiculous as the fact that I was 2kg over at check in, the nice lady told me to repack for passport control where it would be weighed again, and I arrive at passport control wearing seven layers and sweating profusely for them to just wave me through anyway. I find the whole notion of a weight restriction for hand luggage vaguely pointless – should people who weigh more get less carry on allowance?! I totally agree it should conform to the dimensions, and someone should be able to lift it above their head, but the fact that you can just wear more clothes until you get past the gate just nullifies the whole point of the process really.

The flight is fully booked, meaning some poor souls don’t, in actual fact, get to fly this evening. If I was more like a friend of mine who does international flying regularly, I would see this as an opportunity and offer to go later in order to get a bit of cash. However, I was simply petrified at the prospect of remaining in the airport for longer than my already allotted millennium of time.

In any case, I suppose I should be grateful that I made it to the airport at all. There is an airport transfer coach service, which operates largely off of the back of the Auckland public transport system being an abomination. The shuttle coach purports to actually leave every ten minutes, and most of the coaches apparently often show up. For the mere cost of $16 you can enjoy the extravagance of your chosen method of transportation arriving vaguely on time. For me, however, this was not to be. I waited at least 30minutes for a bus that goes every 10 mins. Luckily I had prepared for this eventuality – a little too well actually, hence having time to write this post.

My last few days in New Zealand have been fantastic. My parents visited, and I hired a car and drove them around quite a bit of the North Island. I don’t think it was quite what they were expecting – the car was an ancient Nissan Sunny with the tailgate hanging off and an aversion to starting up in the heat, which I hired for the very reasonable price of $25 per day. I also booked us into a backpackers’ hostel with bunk beds for a night – my mother’s face when she realized there was no running water in the room was a picture. I think they enjoyed themselves though, and it was great fun to get them out of Auckland and show them some of the beautiful sights that New Zealand has to offer.

I am quite sad to be leaving; not least because this means another horrendously long flight, this time with the added effort of the extremely rigorous American Immigration system. The process is not helped by the fact that no one is really sure which visa I need or whether I needed one in the first place. Everyone I come to is surprised that I have one, or annoyed because I don’t have a different one. I am trying to be smiley and pleasant in the hope that it makes me endearing, but I am beginning to think maybe it makes me look suspicious. Any road, I am clearly overthinking everything.

I had better go and queue up with the large amount of irritatingly accented Americans with whom I shall be spending the next few hours of my life. It is a sign of my juvenile state that the fact I will get in to Houston approximately 5 minutes before I leave Auckland is enough to amuse me and almost makes up for all this travelling. I wonder what happens to you when you cross the date line. I hope I get some special powers, perhaps teleportation so that I don't have to endure overbooked flights anymore. I can dream...

See you all on the other side of the pacific.