Everything in London is hard. What should be simple is made almost near on impossible by the metres of red tape they like to wrap everything up in. It is a city obsessed with forms and systems, and everything takes up to ten times longer to do than in Dublin. Looking for a G.P? It better not be terminal. Trying to buy a phone without a sim card? Not happening. Ringing the council because damp is eating away at your walls and you're worried your roof may cave in on top of your bed? Go fuck yourself.
The most basic of requests on the phone in work involve a "sorry can I take your name please?" in a manner that lets you know you better watch your mouth because its all on record. I've endured over a year of living within a commuting population so militant about transport, its literally push or be pushed (under the tracks of a train.) And when they say last orders, they really and truly mean it.
Finding a room to rent transcends into a cruel popularity contest, that unless you're a bow tie and fake glass wearing graphic designer, you'll almost certainly lose. Getting unemployment benefit here makes the dole look like a glamorous no strings attached affair, one in which there are no losers.I find it quite strange then, after all of my complaints, that I find myself settling into it all-quite nicely at times.
When we all decided to move here I read somewhere that of all of the nurses who emmigrate, only 50% will ever return back to Ireland. And as I boarded that BMI flight one cold October night wearing 7 dresses, 5 cardigans, 2 coats, and a pair of cowboy boots I told people "it's just for a year," and I really meant it.
Now as I walk through the hospital and hear old Irish accents scattered everywhere, I wonder how many of them said the same thing.
