I worry about more stuff here.  I stress more about silly inconsequential things. I have to think more – What time train? What shoes? Umbrella? Where’s my oyster card? Can I really afford this second Frappacino? Who are all these people in Heat? Why are they still doing up the same escalator on the Victoria line that they were last time I was here – surely it can’t take 18 months? (fact: yes it can).

It’s mentally exhausting. I feel like a character from a Bronte novel, and not the heroine but her annoying great aunt who’s always needing the smelling salts and having an attack of the vapours.

Whilst I’m enjoying the walks along the southbank, wine, catching up with friends and family, going to the cinema (sugar popcorn!), m&s undies, I am craving a return to my simpler life in Bali. There’s less choice, less media to get absorbed into, no tv and no glossy mags, no fashion and no fashion choices to be dictated by the weather. Overall I’m calmer there, and happier. I find gratitude all the time and with that comes a kind of peace I think it’s practically impossible to achieve living and working in a city. It’s hard to feel anything but tired and stressed when you’re faced with four hour train journeys, drunken people swaying into you on the pavement and constant exposure to the following two headlines: ‘ANOREXIC CELEBRITIES’ and ‘AMAZING: Kate wore an Issa dress on the eighth day of her Canada trip.’



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