A Matter of Taste. Bite Me.

Okay, I have to apologise, as I have noticed that this blog is slowly moving away from what it is supposed to be about. And that is, er, coming to terms with cultural differences of life in the UK.

So I shall start my piece thus: Chocolate over here sucks. "Crisps" (what a poofy thing to call chips anyway) come in strange flavours and the 'fresh' fruit'n'veg is absolute crap. This is something I've known for a while but it has been so obvious that I have just never written a rant about it. Watch me now.

Everything over here seems to be just that bit smaller, more shrivelled, paler and less flavoursome. Okay, I appreciate that the weather has a lot to do with it. In Australia the sunshine breeds bigger, fresher and more robust (that includes the people). In Australia you can feast on apples and tomatoes as big as your head, steaks and prawns the size of small dogs and salads as fresh and springy as, I don't know, a fresh spring.

Here in the UK the food just looks sad (don't worry, I'll stick up for it in a sec). Walk into any Asda supermarket and you'll see a selection of what can only be described as bonsai produce: Fruit that looks as if it should be twice the size, have twice the colour and be three times as varied. I have to say though, it has vastly improved over the years. I mean, before 2003 I couldn't even find sour cream. I don't want to be accused of slagging off the real national foods here, because there are some absolute gems of traditional Scottish dishes that I have become addicted to. Yes, haggis is one of them. Black pudding I can take or leave, thanks. I have never eaten nicer salmon or strawberries in my life. And although the national diet is pretty poor I can safely say that deep fried mars bars (although available if you look) are more of a joke than anything. Everyone associates Fosters lager with Aussies but we know that no-one in Australia actually drinks it.

Anyway my point is that the stuff I was used to buying at Coles in Prahran cannot be touched (or sometimes even found) over here at Sainsbury's. By the way, the Brits are only encouraged to eat 5 portions of fruit and veg (not 5 of each) a day over here. I'm sure in Australia it's almost double that figure, please correct me someone if I'm wrong.

Next and last on the agenda will be an attack on British sweets. Sorry Britain but your lollies really do suck the big one. Cases in point: "UFO's" - thin, disc-shaped (like UFO's, geddit) wafer cases that contain... sherbet. Wow. Like chewing a piece of dusty cardboard. "Jelly Babies": The Australian versions are firm, fruity, flavoursome jubes that make your mouth water. In the UK they're twice the size, covered in icing sugar (*crosses herself*) and are soft, squishy and flavourless. And what's wrong with the normal chip flavours of Cheese and Onion, Chicken or Salt'n'Vinegar? Who in the hell wants Prawn Cocktail, Branston Pickle, Lamb & Mint or Worcester Sauce flavour? Charles Dickens?

Oh, I could go on endlessly. The Picnics have sultanas in them, the donuts taste like cake, the cheesecakes have a sponge base... I can't tell you enough how much I miss southern hemisphere food. I crave Cheezels, I crave Tiny Teddies and Tee Vee Snacks. I crave Sour Cream.

"Are you on your period or something?"

Ask anyone who knows me and they will tell you that I'm a pretty calm and laid-back person. Ask anyone who works with me and they will tell you that I'm a good-humoured and even-tempered person. So why was it tonight I found myself flying into the kind of rage that only seems to come out about once every two years? You know when you're so angry, frustrated and upset that you literally spit your words out but they don't make any sense? When the sane, rational side of you evaporates for a split second and with a moment's whoosh of adrenaline the lunatic monster pushes its way out of your throat, your eyeballs and it all just gets a bit Exorcist?

I am at the end of a bad week. Okay, my other half reminded me this evening that "every week" is a bad week for me, but this particular week you just couldn't make up. My team mate at work has been away all week so I have been thoroughly biserable. But that's alright because she is going through a very personal and devastating crisis, and due to this I haven't been able sleep properly or think straight all week. I love this girl, she is such a fantastic person and my heart is fucking breaking for her. So I have faced the ultimate test of grieving and welling up in between putting my work face on and soldiering on all week. With a deep hatred of Business As Usual.

In between this are emotional, staccato emails from one of my sisters. Now and again we do this- send silent, long distance pleas for help during our working week. It's like holding hands but not knowing what's going on at the other end.

Then at 3am this morning Social Services came to the door saying that my fiance's mother had set off the personal alarm she wears around her neck. So he rushed into her house thinking the worst, only to find her sleeping peacefully, with the alarm sitting untouched on the bedside table. She had probably set it off accidentally whilst getting ready for bed, no doubt in her usual 1am drunken state. As a result I slept through my alarm this morning and got into work late. My boss came over and asked if I was okay. I said I didn't know. Maybe. The day happened anyway, regardless of whether I was okay or not. But I got through it with the aid of some very sweet emails from the boy, promising me lots of attention when I got home.

I walked into my dark house tonight and remembered how nice it was last September to see my mum waiting for me at the door with a hug. Instead tonight I saw her postcard in the letterbox and felt an awful lump at the back of my throat. I cooked dinner as usual, even though I really didn't feel like it. And just as I was looking forward to all the attention I was promised from the boy, he said he was going to have his mate over. Then I flipped out.

He asked "are you on your period or something, you're acting like a bunny boiler" which made me even worse. Ask ANY WOMAN. So following some extremely heated words (us), deadly looks (me) and about 16 tissues (me again) I was sat down and basically told to stop whinging and get my shit together. Okaaay. Well it wasn't that harsh but it wasn't far from it. Thanks for the love, babe.

But you know what? Fundamentally he is right. The bastard. Sure it's been an upsetting week, but obviously more so for someone other than me. Maybe I have had some deep seated issues stirred up from within my tightly packed, neatly folded and repressed self. Perhaps. Maybe I'm not so calm and laid back after all, I'm just too scared to act out whenever I feel like it, thus saving it all for those 2-yearly Krakatoa type eruptions. Probably. Anyway I promise this will be the last whiney, self indulgent blog I write. Hopefully. Emotions are a little bit high at the moment.