The week I turned 18, I got on a plane to London. I had things to run from, but also things to run to. London was alive with people I'd never met and bands I wanted to hear. As far as I was concerned, I was never coming back. It was lonely at first. I arrived with a couple of hundred pounds, one suitcase and a scrap of paper with a phone number on it. No relatives, no friends, just the number of a girl whose sister I used to do ballet with.
I looked for work. I found work. I lived in a series of squalid flats and bedsits in South London that were cramped and cold with pre-war plumbing. Most of my wages went on rent — the rest on food, vinyl and concert tickets. That was before I discovered squatting. I lived with kids from Manchester, Liverpool, Scotland and Ireland. I vowed never to live in Earl's Court, hanging out with gangs of Aussies and Kiwis. Why would you come all this way to surround yourself with your own kind? I stuck assiduously to my vow.
The end of the year approached, the temperature plunged and unusual things began to happen. I amassed an impressive set of chilblains from the constant freezing and thawing of my hands. I hid my saveloy sausage fingers in pockets and gloves whenever I could. It got dark around 3pm, so I left for work in the gloom and came home in the gloom, filing underground with the other commuters like a grey army of mole people. On the upside, I found a spacious flat in West London and started to feel excited about my first Northern Hemisphere Christmas. Would it be white? I'd never seen snow before. I had no idea whether it would pelt down like rain or idle through the air like feathers in a pillow fight. I was dying to find out.
There was a ceremony to switch on the Regent St lights. Vendors sold roasted chestnuts in paper cones on the street. Department stores vied with each other to swathe their windows in festive displays, exquisite with detail. Halfway through December I found myself wondering what on earth I was going to do for Christmas Day. My flatmates were all leaving London to spend the holiday with their families and I wasn't thrilled at the prospect of rattling around our three-storey Victorian-gothic terraced house on my own. Even filled with flatmates, it was dark and spooky. Weird things happened in the room upstairs.
A week out from Christmas I was in Sainsbury's getting some basics, when I encountered something unexpected in the spreads aisle — a flat-load of Kiwis debating the difference between English and New Zealand Marmite. I slowed to a halt, pretending to browse the marmalade section. This was the sound of home. I hadn't heard it for almost a year and I was unprepared. It was alien, draggy and flat. Did I sound like that? I flinched at the vowel shift and the dark L's — how had I not noticed the neediness in those uptilted sentences before? But I heard something else in there too — something that was honest, friendly and comforting as a blanket. Before moving on, they agreed that English Marmite was "like being punched in the mouth" and chose a jar of Australian Vegemite instead.
With days to go before the holiday break, I met a girl from Johnsonville who'd been working downstairs on the third floor for weeks. It was a big company and our paths hadn't crossed. We had lunch and one of the first things she asked was — have you got somewhere to go for Christmas? Heather lived in a bedsit in Earl's Court and she invited me to spend the day with a houseful of Kiwis in Hammersmith. I said yes. She told me to bring pineapple juice and plum pudding. I headed back to Sainsbury's. Public transport didn't run on Christmas Day, so I packed an overnight bag, went to meet Heather and we took the tube to Hammersmith on a frigid Christmas Eve.
She introduced me to her friends, who were all from Wellington. Someone had cranked up the heating and they were wandering around in shorts, jandals and Hawaiian shirts. I handed over the pineapple juice and one of the girls kept the pina coladas coming. We had silly drinks, talked about how stand-offish the Brits could be and played a game where you had to share the most humiliating moment of your life. The winner got a box of chocolates. When the rum and pineapple juice ran out we slept, marae-style, on the lounge floor.
The next morning, people around me began to stir, starting sleepy conversations. It took me a long moment to figure out where I was. "Do you like dark?" A box of chocolates was shoved in my face by the girl who'd bravely shared her cystitis shame. Apparently she only ate milk chocolate. She donated her winnings and I received them like some holy Christmas sacrament. Forgetting all about homemade mince pies, I scoffed the entire box and felt queasy for the rest of the day. How traditional is that?
Everyone piled into the kitchen to peel spuds, roast the turkey and argue about how to make gravy. We feasted at a long table in the lounge, then walked through the wintry gloom in a vain attempt to make some space for dessert. So what if it didn't snow? So what if the plum pudding tasted like cardboard packaging and there were no sixpences buried within? These strangers had welcomed me into their home, mixed me drinks with umbrellas, shared their secrets and their dark chocolates.
I began to think that going home one day might not be so impossible after all.
