Waking up in Shoreditch is always different to me, a born Greater Londoner. The light beams in through filters, you can hear the food delivery men and women doing the rounds, while shop owners start to open up. I know I’m moving to Australia, which is definitely not London, but I’m hoping it has its own little quirks.
I’ve always lived away from main roads, in all of my houses, a main road could never be seen. In Shoreditch, it’s right there under my nose. It’s great that before moving to Melbourne I can see more of London life and everything that it embodies. In true Arti and Claire fashion, we ate breakfast and started to watch Peaky Blinders, got addicted to Peaky Blinders, which causes takeaway Nando’s and a personally forced retreat back on the Central Line to go home.
The eighth day, is my packing day. I’d scheduled out time for today and made sure it was in big capital letters in my Diary. Only problem is that when I started, I started packing winter clothes. Five minutes and seven jumpers later, I closed my bedroom door and pretended it didn’t exist. Seven jumpers? I’m mad. I must be mad. I originally packed ten and then had to discipline myself and remove even more. Don’t worry, I’m not taking seven. I wish. After I accepted my situation I returned to packing. Later my sister-in-law packed for me and I sat with my head in my hands, just watching. I’m trying not to accept everyone telling me to take as much as I can.
I want to have that discipline. Take less. I need more wardrobe choice than I had in Italy, but not necessarily more clothes. I keep telling myself I don’t need two and a half suitcases because I don’t. Be me for a second. Imagine two years. That’s my problem. Maybe I should pack as if I’m only going for one month.
We packed most things and nearly everything fits but it’s not an excuse. In the next few days, I’m going to go through each suitcase and remove most things. Let’s see if I can dwindle it down to one. I’ll keep you updated. Wish me luck.
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