Last week I decided to call time.
Grateful for this opportunity and thankful for the few months we’d had all together, I was ready to pack up and return home.
Y’see, Bali was terrific. Singapore went ok. And then we plunged to somewhere below shite at break neck speed.
Don’t get me wrong, I do feel incredibly grateful that we get to do this. But some days, when the kids are whining about leaving the accommodation ( fancy making them go to the beach to swim in crystal clear water – what sort of asshole parents are we?!), they refuse to eat anything but Vegemite crackers and apples and you have to familiarise yourself with a new city every week, nerves get a little frayed and homebodies like me crave routine and fluency – in language and in day-to-day life.
So I did what any other woman would do. Had an enormous anxiety attack, collapsed in a heap of tears, and declared I’d be flying home the next day.
Except obviously I didn’t. And thank goodness for that very sensible husband of mine who instead suggested that we leave Phuket immediately (gotta say guys, I’m not the biggest fan of that place at all) and head over to Hong Kong.
I reminded him that, errr, that’s sort of going even further away from Australia but he insisted and started researching areas to stay (because there was no way I was risking any dodgy locations again). On his quest for the perfect location, our very generous friend, who I will never, ever be able to thank enough, offered up his apartment.
Not only that, he met us at the train station, showed us where to buy beer and played tour guide on our first day. If that’s not a diamond of a human right there, I don’t know what is!
Hong Kong, I think we might be falling in love with you.