What would you do upon arrival in Dublin, seven hours ahead of your friends? You’d charmingly chat to your elderly AirBnB hostess about the myriad literary delights Dublin is uniquely positioned to offer — Joyce, Stoker — and then you’d go to the Guiness factory, wouldn’t you? Yeah you would.
London’s not burning. It’s melting.
Because being an Australian in London is apparently much like being in high school again, let’s talk about boys, shall we?
Prepare for me to be on remarkably good behaviour for two weeks, starting tomorrow.
It’s been tumultuous, welcoming but life-expectancy-shortening week. A brief rundown is below. No doubt more details will arise in subsequent entries.
I feel like Nadir is babysitting me. I suspect he feels the same way.
The smell of burned toast and wet food scraps in the sink always reminds me of my time living in Canada.
An unsettlingly big place 