This is my eighteenth trip back to the UK since I moved out to Australia in 2001. The first 18 months were a struggle I have to admit. You may think that moving to a country where they speak the same language and drive on the same side of the road would be easy, but those early days were tough. 

I was 25 years old when I packed up my flat in Aldershot, left an amazing job and jumped on a big jet plane to ‘the land of plenty’. On the 6th November 2001, I landed in Sydney airport with no more than a 20kg bag of belongings to remind me of home. 
I remember sitting on the side of the road in a car that I had been fortunate enough to borrow, three weeks in to my life in oz, crying at the wheel because I was lost. Now me being lost (or crying for that matter) isn’t uncommon, and I can lose my way on a straight road, but on this particular occasion, my frustrations lay in all of the streets being in blocks.  After 20 or so minutes of seeing the same street corner over and over, having driven around literally in squares, I felt very alone and immensly homesick. Everything seemed so foreign to me suddenly, and in those next few months I found myself getting highly agitated at the smallest ‘Australianisms’. 

To me, these nuances where constant reminders that I was about as far away from ‘home’ as a girl could get. For example; the lack of stairs; being asked ‘how ya goin?’ upon entering a shop ( I clearly wasn’t going anywhere as I’d just walked in); maroon being pronounced marone (oh yes it’s true); duvets being referred to as ‘a doona’ or ‘manchester’ and conversations being started with ‘ah look!’. 
As the years have gone by,  I have got over my irrational agitations and have succumb to ‘the Aussie way’. I truly love my life is Oz and all that it offers and I have even joined the locals in referring to crisps as ‘chips’, sweets as ‘lollies’, flip flops as ‘thongs’ and as much as it pains me to admit, I have caught myself saying ‘doona’ on more than one occasion. And while Australia really is a very easy country to live in, there are still stark contrasts with home. 

Probably the two big stand outs for me, are driving and supermarkets. I know many will think that I would pick the weather, and yes it is very different, but not in the same way as the other two. The sheer volume of traffic on the roads in the UK can only be fully comprehended by being sat in one the many ‘car parks’, more commonly known as major roads; also in needing to have the required skills to get your car down the smallest of streets whilst passing a lorry going in the other direction, and with copious amounts of cars parked up and down the street with no regard to the direction of traffic. Needless to say I love driving in the UK, it’s fun and challenging and frustrating all at the same time. As far as supermarkets go, I have been known to peruse the aisles of Asda, Tesco’s and Sainsbury’s for many an hour, taking in the sheer volume of choice. Australia is slowly catching on with their supermarkets but they’re still a long way off from being able to buy an Indian take away from the same shop as you can buy your underwear, TV and pet insurance.  

I’m not saying that either country is better, both are just very different; and maybe only someone who has had the chance to spend significant time in both will truly understand what I mean. I dress differently when I come home, I wear my hair differently, I eat differently and even my sleeping patterns completely change. Apparently I don’t exercise in this country, or even have the inclination to do so, whereas back home, I’ll happily run 100km in a month. I listen to the radio here, with Patrick watching me, fascinated as I am engrossed and often laughing uncontrollably at the DJs waffle. I drink tea by the bucketload and I make it in a pot, not in a cup with a tea bag. I stop drinking coffee because I have been spoilt by some of the finest baristas back in Oz, and I’ve found nothing that even begins to compare over here. Even things that you think would be equivalent aren’t, for example the taste of chocolate, the flavour of crisps and the taste of butter to name a few. 

My life in Australia has provided me with opportunities that the UK probably never could have, and I have my own little Aussie in Patrick.  I have come to the conclusion over the years that I love being in both hemispheres equally, and I thoroughly enjoy the time I get to spend in both. But what I have realised more recently, is that where I have often thought that one is very like the other, actually Australia and the UK really are worlds apart, in more than just distance and flying time. 

  
I love Christmas. I always have. I know not everyone does and I’m also aware that for a lot of people Christmas is a tough time of year, but for me the magic of Christmas has never waned. 

Memories of Christmas in the Mitchell househould fill my heart with many wonderful emotions and I can’t help but smile when I think of Mum sat next to the tree handing out our gifts, reading each tag with as much enthusiasm as the last. I remember the many hours that followed as we took turns to open them one by one, looking on in delight to see what we each had received, all the while eagerly impatient for our own turn to open. 

My thoughts are also filled with fairy lights and jigsaw puzzles (a staple festive gift which Dad and I would relish in, but which my sister I’m sure would still cringe about to this day, remembering how she would put together the edges and then more often than not, break them back up again and return them to the box where they would then remain, unmade, as I had kindly offered to ‘help’ her complete the rest – not an uncommon theme throughout our childhood now I come to think of it). I think too of new pyjamas, traditional turkey roast dinner and three kinds of stuffing; of an open fire, the Queens speech, Annie (one of my favourite films which I’m sure stems from finding comfort in the trials and tribulations of a fellow red head, albeit an orphan one); sherry pop and falling asleep on the lounge room floor. There are too many magical memories to note them all but needless to say, for me, Christmas has always been a wonderful time of the year. 

Living the Aussie life for the last 15 years has meant that my take on Christmas has somewhat changed. I can honestly say that Christmas spent in a bikini, eating prawns cooked on the BBQ (‘barbie’ if you really want to get in the spirit of the Aussie twang) and where evening activities include dodging and swatting Mosquitos and swimming in the backyard pool, will never quite compare to the cold, dark British Christmas. Having a six year old, however, whose eyes light up at the mere mention of Santa and where the ever increasing excitement of the countdown to the ‘big day’ is almost too much to bear, serves as a beautiful and constant reminder of the romance of Christmas, and once again I fall in love with this time of year. 

Embedded in all of my memories, both childhood and more recently, is chocolate. The variety, copious, and the quantity seemingly bottomless: Terry’s chocolate orange, a guaranteed gift from Nanny Mitchell; home-made chocolate coated marzipan (I’m salivating as I write), tree decorations galore and chocolate coins, my favouite chocolatey treat. I am, or rather was, a self confessed chocoholic and no-one who really knows me would dispute that fact. I have been known to have chocolate for breakfast, lunch, dinner and every snack in between. I do not discriminate between varieties, although I’m not a fan of dark chocolate and I do love the expensive stuff (story of my life). In more recent years, I have been known to bundle a sound asleep Patrick into the  back of the car on a mission to purchase the brown, melt in your mouth stuff, when the desire/need/want was too strong to fight at 10pm.  Even I think that is a little crazy in hindsight! But this year, due to recent discoveries, there will be no chocolate at Christmas, or ever again for that matter it seems. 

Six years ago, in conjunction with the arrival of Patrick, I developed arm numbness. This wasn’t just a ‘slept on your arm the wrong way’ kind of thing; we are talking both arms, shoulders to fingers, zero feeling! That was at it’s worse, but even at best I could wake up not knowing where one of my arms was, fearing that if I rolled over, I may break something. It was unpleasant and disconcerting, and while the feeling always returned upon awakening, some mornings it was quite a challenge to turn the alarm clock off (don’t laugh) and the sensation of the feeling returning was uncomfortable to say the least. To cut a long story short, but not without mentioning the time and money spent trying to get to the bottom of my newly developed condition, and with many a Doctor citing that ‘I was just sleeping funny’; in November this year I discovered the underlying reason for my numb arms at night – chocolate! While no doubt some of you reading this may scoff in dispute, I have tested my theory in a variety of ways and the fact remains, I am allergic to my most favourite edible thing.

It appears to be the cocoa; and while I have no idea why it only happens while I sleep, if even the tiniest bit passes my lips, I will wake up with no feeling in at least one arm. I haven’t formally been allergy tested (and I’m not convinced it would show up anyway) and I haven’t concluded if the severity of the numbness directly relates to the quantity eaten, but during one episode, my legs were starting to go numb also, so it’s not a theory I’m willing to test. 

My finding is bittersweet however, as I now face a life without chocolate and more pertinantly so, my first Christmas without chocolate.  I realise that there are many worse things that could happen, and going without chocolate for evermore is not really that dramatic, nor is it ‘end of the word, cry yourself to sleep’ stuff, but for me it’s going to take some adjustment.  So this year instead of devouring all of the yummy treats that I can lay my eyes on, I will avert my gaze from the marzipan and seek out the nicest fudge I can find and instead of finding solace in the sweet brown stuff I can eat, I will remind myself of the magic of Christmas past and of all of the wonderful things that spending time with family can bring, and maybe I’ll get out a jigsaw instead of reaching for another chocolate coin. 

Merry Christmas.