Decked out in huge pink shades, hair full of thin braids, tight patterned trousers and a strut to match, I breezed through Heathrow Arrival’s lounge. But my arrogance didn’t allow me to notice my strong resemblance to el Pratt, until after I bounced through the front door. Holiday clothes do not bear well in unsunny London. You just end up looking out of place. However, I predict my holiday glow to last at least 2 week’s right?

Wrong.
It’s now 5 days later and I have well and truly acclimatised. I’m cold, skint and I am still AN UNPUBLISHED AUTHOR. I should have stayed abroad. There I was, this fabulously glamorous girl from London who everyone wanted to talk to. Instead of little ol’ me from South London, I became big ol’ me from London, England. A land far off and distant. The land of milk and honey. I felt like the wisest person around as children from the local village gathered round to hear my wise tales of life in the West. (Okay, that bit’s a lie), but you get my drift.