everything else this country has to offer.
The past few weeks have been amazing, not least because my legs are beginning to take on a very healthy golden tan and my hair has achieved a natural bounce I couldn’t reproduce back home with $500 worth of John Frieda.
The job is everything I wanted it to be.
Hell, it’s everything I needed it to be.
Since I was forced to close the shop back home, my career in the wonderful world of chocolate consumables had been royally in the toilet. Morton & Slacks sucked the life out of me every day, and it got to the point where I never wanted to look at another chocolate fondue set ever again. That was the worst thing about the job—it made me start to hate one of the major passions in my life.
I really feel like I’ve won the lottery now, though. Working for Worongabba is the best job I could possibly have without owning my own business again. The money is great, the working conditions are fantastic, Poppy is in the best day care I’ve ever come across, and I get to go to work every day in a series of light summer dresses that make me look and feel about ten years younger.
I always wake up with a smile on my face, and Jamie gets the biggest kiss possible at the door before I leave. This, if nothing else, should give ample evidence that I am enjoying life again.
Kissing my husband goodbye in the morning is something I haven’t been all that keen on doing in recent months. Jamie and I have lived what can only be described as a strained existence this past year. The mere fact that I am happy to give him a big smacker as I leave for work now marks a very healthy and much-needed change in our relationship. Things still aren’t quite how they used to be when we were first married, but this move to Australia has improved matters to no end, and I’m confident that any damage that might have been done back home thanks to all the stresses and tensions we were under will be mended out here in the sun in no time at all.
After Poppy and I say goodbye to Jamie, I drive us up the highway in the monstrous white car we own, with its exhaust that’s several decibels above the safe limit for most people’s eardrums. I try to ignore the looks from the passing pedestrians as much as I can and just turn up the radio.
Australian radio is very strange. They don’t seem to have any stations dedicated to new songs. I was listening to the area’s most popular station yesterday, and they played a Foo Fighters song back-to-back with Eddy Grant’s “Electric Avenue” with no trace of irony whatsoever.
Usually by the time Poppy and I reach Surfer’s Paradise we’ve been treated to hits from the last three decades. And Crowded House. There always must be Crowded House. It’s written into the Australian constitution.
Surfer’s Paradise is the crown jewel in the Gold Coast’s expansive tiara. It’s the nearest you get to a proper city anywhere in these parts. By Australian standards it’s huge, but all New Yorkers would laugh at the notion that this collection of skyscrapers perched right on the edge of the ocean could in any way be classed as a city . You can cheerfully walk the entire length of the place in an afternoon if you had a mind to.
What buildings it does have, though, are impressive. The collection of soaring monstrosities looms over the golden sandy beaches, casting their long shadows over the water at dusk. From the heights they reach, you’d be forgiven for thinking they were running out of space around here.
I once visited Miami for a few days back in my youth while on holiday, so I can appreciate the rampant plagiarism going on here. It’s like somebody picked up everything from Fort Lauderdale to the Everglades, put it on a hot wash until it shrunk four sizes, and plonked it down on the east coast of Australia.
I love it, though, partly because I haven’t seen a cloud in the sky for a week, and partly because this is where I work. I love living in the quieter, smaller
The past few weeks have been amazing, not least because my legs are beginning to take on a very healthy golden tan and my hair has achieved a natural bounce I couldn’t reproduce back home with $500 worth of John Frieda.
The job is everything I wanted it to be.
Hell, it’s everything I needed it to be.
Since I was forced to close the shop back home, my career in the wonderful world of chocolate consumables had been royally in the toilet. Morton & Slacks sucked the life out of me every day, and it got to the point where I never wanted to look at another chocolate fondue set ever again. That was the worst thing about the job—it made me start to hate one of the major passions in my life.
I really feel like I’ve won the lottery now, though. Working for Worongabba is the best job I could possibly have without owning my own business again. The money is great, the working conditions are fantastic, Poppy is in the best day care I’ve ever come across, and I get to go to work every day in a series of light summer dresses that make me look and feel about ten years younger.
I always wake up with a smile on my face, and Jamie gets the biggest kiss possible at the door before I leave. This, if nothing else, should give ample evidence that I am enjoying life again.
Kissing my husband goodbye in the morning is something I haven’t been all that keen on doing in recent months. Jamie and I have lived what can only be described as a strained existence this past year. The mere fact that I am happy to give him a big smacker as I leave for work now marks a very healthy and much-needed change in our relationship. Things still aren’t quite how they used to be when we were first married, but this move to Australia has improved matters to no end, and I’m confident that any damage that might have been done back home thanks to all the stresses and tensions we were under will be mended out here in the sun in no time at all.
After Poppy and I say goodbye to Jamie, I drive us up the highway in the monstrous white car we own, with its exhaust that’s several decibels above the safe limit for most people’s eardrums. I try to ignore the looks from the passing pedestrians as much as I can and just turn up the radio.
Australian radio is very strange. They don’t seem to have any stations dedicated to new songs. I was listening to the area’s most popular station yesterday, and they played a Foo Fighters song back-to-back with Eddy Grant’s “Electric Avenue” with no trace of irony whatsoever.
Usually by the time Poppy and I reach Surfer’s Paradise we’ve been treated to hits from the last three decades. And Crowded House. There always must be Crowded House. It’s written into the Australian constitution.
Surfer’s Paradise is the crown jewel in the Gold Coast’s expansive tiara. It’s the nearest you get to a proper city anywhere in these parts. By Australian standards it’s huge, but all New Yorkers would laugh at the notion that this collection of skyscrapers perched right on the edge of the ocean could in any way be classed as a city . You can cheerfully walk the entire length of the place in an afternoon if you had a mind to.
What buildings it does have, though, are impressive. The collection of soaring monstrosities looms over the golden sandy beaches, casting their long shadows over the water at dusk. From the heights they reach, you’d be forgiven for thinking they were running out of space around here.
I once visited Miami for a few days back in my youth while on holiday, so I can appreciate the rampant plagiarism going on here. It’s like somebody picked up everything from Fort Lauderdale to the Everglades, put it on a hot wash until it shrunk four sizes, and plonked it down on the east coast of Australia.
I love it, though, partly because I haven’t seen a cloud in the sky for a week, and partly because this is where I work. I love living in the quieter, smaller
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