The weather today in Hampshire is what you experience, everyday, in Singapore – on the Equator. Relentlessly the same; very humid. 

 Humidity is at saturated levels today. You can almost see the drops of moisture in the air, like pearls about to drop to the ground.

 Summer is holding on. Like squeezing the last of the tomato ketchup (we call it tomato sauce in Oz) out of a bottle onto the meat in a hamburger; I am making the most of these last days of summer.

We were meant to be back in London last night, but a road problem detoured us in a loop back to the Old Rectory. So I am living in a foreign country today, via the weather, in rural England.

That was the way it felt when we moved to South Kensington in 2003. It felt, excitingly, foreign and exotic. I had adapted to the traits of the pheasants and stags in Wandsworth, in South London. I was a Sloane Sheila for strewth’s sake! I had reinvented myself. I wore Alice bands in the early 90s. Had frilly collars like Princess Di.

 In South Kensington, I felt like I had arrived on Mars. It was different. Very different. I loved that my senses were on ‘red alert’.  

There is a scene in Star Wars (Film IV- 1977) where Hans Solo, Harrison Ford, goes into a bar on some rogue space station, and there is every inter-galactic type there, as if the whole of the galaxy is having a drink at that bar. There is every alien you can imagine in  a different body form; some have a mono-eye, and they all speak weirdly. That is how I felt when we moved to South Kensington. Obviously everyone had two eyes, but it was a banquet of different types.

It was one thing to move from Sydney to Wandsworth, but another to move to Chelsea.

At the front door of Queen’s Gate School, each morning, the whole world was there when I dropped Anna off each day. The United Nations was represented. It was only a front door, as the school was several tall town houses, joined together by knocking through walls. There was no playground. No space.

 Where I grew up in Bexley North, the White Australia policy, our shameful racist past in my homeland, ensured that mainly only whites turned up at the school gate. A few clever Chinese, a smattering of Greeks and Italians: that was the full extent of shaking it up in the gene pool.

 At Queen’s Gate the whole world was represented, at least on the female side. And I loved it from day one.

Greeks, Chinese, Spanish, Italians, Belgian, Germans, Balkans, Russians, Arabs, Amercians, Indians, Irish, and the descendant of one Aussie Sheila, Anna, my daughter.

 There were two stellar teachers there: Mrs Neale and Mrs Webb. They were both middle-aged, experienced teachers; they were vocational teachers. They liked the look of the Wilmots.

And the terrain: beautiful buildings and museums everywhere. Bellissima! We were living amongst the monuments.

Before long, I was class representative for the Parents and Teachers’ Association. Before long, Geoff was announcing the races at Sports Day. It may have felt foreign, but it suited us down to the ground. For a Sheila from Down Under, it was just the ticket. I felt like I had won the lottery. I had a large playing field in which to play. At last, so many different world views. So many different life experiences.

I could just hide under a gum tree for a bit and relax.