Home for three weeks

How exactly do you find a comfortable, safe, clean new home, albeit temporary, when your choosing from grainy images half-way across the world?



Luckily I have a system. And perservance. And high standards.



The mission: To find a hostel to reside in upon touching down in London. Somewhere to stay for a minimum of weeks, maximum of months. A cosy nest that I can return to after pounding the streets of London and weathering the storm of rejection. Somewhere with windows. And white sheets. And not necessarily filled with other travellers whose own homelessness has left them in a state of , shell we say, neglect?



Fortunately for me, I have found such a place. Well, I suppose that actually remains to be seen since I have yet to be there. But my system of googling, visiting webpages and then cross-checking against TripAdvisor reviews has lead me to London's Best Budget Hotel (literally, awarded in 2008), Palmer's Lodge.

It has everything. Shiny timber bunks, clean linen, free breakfast, free internet, cosy lounges with fires, and a beautiful Victorian facade, in a nice village to boot.

Sure, it's not home. But I can pretend for awhile.

Five weeks to go

That's me. The one on the left. I'm cold, the freaks on the subway have scared the shit out of me and I've been awake for 15 hours and counting. But I'm at Times Square.

It always bewilders me when people are perfectly happy staying put. Or not even necessarily staying put, but not accelerating their lives in any real way. A bit about me- I have itchy feet. I get bored. Easily. I change radio stations before a song hits it's chorus. I have no idea what my real hair colour is. I idle between neurotically clean and scarily lazy. I work in hospitality despite having a degree in journalism and even though people really bug me. Some days I subsist on coffee, sex and cigarettes, the next I preach total love for my body, drink tea, do yoga and read The Secret.

The point is. After approximately 15 years in school, six months in full-time employment, 22 years of living in the same town shortly followed by a five-year relationship implosion, London is Calling.

Rewind two months to scene where I sign up for a working visa online.

Mum: Are you sure this isn't just a knee-jerk reaction to the break-up?
Me: Yes. So.
Mum: What if he wants you back?
Me: He'll have to come to London.
Mum: But what will you do over there?
Me: I guess we'll find out.

And so we wait.