To rage against…

There I was in London one minute distilling my very essence into online forms and financial data, when I was told definitively that despite all advances in modern technology, the bifurcations, hooks, whorls and spurs of my fingerprints must be measured in Melbourne and only Melbourne and the 16,900km that stood between me and a particular biometric recording device counted for nothing.

One laboured chapter of Wuthering Heights, a weighty September Vogue, and countless hours later, I was in Abu Dhabi, then Melbourne, then across town––patted down, I was ushered into a small room, where delirious I was scanned, photographed and registered, before being packed back to London to marry up my measurements with the real thing and collect my micro-chipped residence permit (is it always on? Can I turn it off?).

There was time enough for D to beat me by six points in scrabble and retain the title for the conceivable future and to tete a tete with O, with whom I’d been to see Gypsy on the West End just days earlier. I don’t know if this is all fabulous or a bit yucky.

I trimmed an hour off the edge of my jetlag travelling backwards to Amsterdam to meet up with WB and attend a VDLs family function where I was easily the shortest person not sitting at the kids’ table. Ah the Dutch. There was an experiment in cycling selfies and mass consumption of cheese, stroopwafels and apple pie/tart/crumble, which we offset with long forest walks and canal-side rambling (true).

After a week together in London I’ve now said goodbye to my tall friend in preparation for Mum’s arrival. I know I know––I said something about doing my Masters. It kicks off in under two weeks now, so the pressure’s on to find a house and a job and make like I’m not precious/picky and/nor on permanent holiday. Hm, nothing like some new stationery to make me realise shit's about to get real.

And I thought I’d said goodbye to these two for good.