I did normal things today. It was so nice. I had the apartment to myself, pottered around, tidying up and packing bags, getting ready to leave again soon.

I popped to the shop downstairs and chatted to my friends (for about two hours). We complained about how rubbish work was, and then made plans to go to mini golf (Holey Moley!) next week. Then, for the first time in 13 months, I got a real haircut. An actual professional haircut, in a salon down the road! We live close to town so I was able to walk. I told the lady that I was going home to England soon and wanted to look smart, as opposed to my DIY job. It’s amazing how a proper cut and blow-dry can change your appearance from perhaps-a-teenager-wandering-around to an-actual-adult-woman-who-looks-like-she-knows-what-she’s-doing (we’ll see how it looks in the morning!).

Afterwards, I popped into Woolworths to pick up some bits and pieces. I realised the reality of the fresh-food shortages due to the floodings across the east coast. I feel like I’ve been cooped up in this apartment too long, not connecting with the world outside… Anyway, that’s a whole ‘nother story. At Woolies, I happily bumped into another workmate! It felt so good to know people, have a chat and a laugh, and poke good-natured fun at them when leaving the self-checkouts because their machine was flashing red (hahaha).

Walking back down the road, on a normal Wednesday night, with people doing normal Wednesday night things. It was 7.30pm, so the sun was setting and the direction of “home” is in the direction of the sea. Straight out west. A normal Wednesday night.

Long gone are the long summer nights, the kids no longer off school, monopolising every inch of pavement. No more evening entertainment. No special events. Just a normal Wednesday. …I didn’t realise how much I’d missed a normal Wednesday. Of all of the days of the week there have ever been, a normal Wednesday night can be so special. The cool breeze of autumn reminded me of the chill of British home, made me feel less like an outsider chasing that famous Australian sun and more like a… normal person, doing normal things.

I was walking home, thinking about the bangers and mash I was gonna make when I got in, with the corn-on-the-cob that I’d just bought from the shops on the side (Aussies call sausages “snags” and it’s just one of the many Australian words that makes me cringe…). I was thinking I’d probably put Fast and Furious 7 on when I got in too, as I’d been rewatching all of them on Stan. Ahhh. The bliss of a normal Wednesday night. Sun, sea and sand, and sunsets. Beautiful. Groups of friends or teams were playing volleyball on the beach. Another lady was taking a picture of the sunset down the jetty. It must be nice to have a routine, to feel part of a community.

But… Australia makes it very difficult for Working Holiday Makers to develop a community. Until recently, you weren’t even allowed to work the same job for more than six months, in case you… what? I don’t know. However, we, Claire and I, had been trying to recreate our home life but with the backpacker lifestyle. And it doesn’t work. We have no security. We don’t feel particularly “safe” in our current apartment (more on that another time). As WHMs, you might lose your job with same-day notice (yep, that happened). You might have to move hostel and have to be able to afford someplace new. More than likely, you’ll meet some incredible people who will all move on without you. You’ll meet non-incredible people who will stay. The sense of community you foster at each new place will be ripped away from you time and again as the months turn into years.

It’s amazing the difference that in-person contact has. I think a lot of the world has learnt that during Covid. I still stay in touch online with some very dear friends and buddies, but nothing replaces coming back from a day’s work and sitting on your balcony having a chat with your mate who makes you laugh; that one who has a totally different background from you (Milan, darling, Milan), with years of stories to tell, and all whilst watching the ragtag flock of chickens peck at the grass (miss you Gloria!).

We had just accepted a job offer to earn AUD $1,320 – $1,815 (pre-15%-tax) per week for a number of months. It would have been so good to earn and save loads of money, especially as the UK is SO EXPENSIVE and we’re planning on going back to study. But it would have meant more travelling – being told where to go next and staying in hostels or apartments. No community. No routine. No security. No safety. In the end, a.k.a. two days ago, we decided it’s time to go home. Enough is finally enough. After two years (2.5 for Claire) of giving Australia everything we’ve got, and getting very little in return (more on THAT later), it’s not worth being pushed pillar to post anymore. Apart from a few touristy highlights that we’d like to come back for, Australia has nothing to offer us. A great place for a holiday. Not so great for a want-to-travel-but-it’s-during-covid-lockdown-and-also-have-to-make-money-and-feel-at-home-and-try-and-enjoy-everything-because-everyone-who-has-never-travelled-will-tell-you-it’s-a-once-in-a-lifetime-experience… experience. The money we could have earned from the job would not have replaced a sense of belonging, safety and comfort. Australia is a beautifully outstanding land, but Australian employers and visa requirements have emotionally drained the cup, of the willpower to persist… (And after all that, ALL THAT, they remove the forced-labour farmwork requirement. After. all. those. months. … … So. many. months… …).

Modern-day humanity has done a pretty good job at destroying community. Now us Westerners and increasingly, Easterners, have to be “better-than”. Although generally during comparisons, we end up feeling “less-than”. I guess in my honest opinion, no-one “belongs” in Australia except from the First Nations Australians. You can’t just invade a country, murder most of its inhabitants, and say “It’s ours now” and then feel like you “belong”… I digress.

Glenelg could be home. Adelaide could be home. But we’re not afforded the chance. We have to be temporary. Our lives have to be temporary. We’ve been living permanently temporary for a long time.

Home could be anywhere.

Home is a sense of belonging.

There’s no place like home.