Everything comes to an end they say.
Even us. Even this. This beautiful thing we’ve had going for the last four years. We’ve run the full cycle. We’re complete. And yet. But. And but again…. I thought I was done, but I’m not. Let’s face it. Comments are down. Sure I have my incredible stalwarts – thanks Di, Cathy, Monique – but in general this blog just isn’t getting anywhere near the views or comments of its heyday. The heyday which was, when? Not so long ago really. 2011, 2012, 2013 – they were all good years for Vegemitevix. I was that gobby Kiwi expat chick. I chatted about Flying Brazilians and The Attractive Older Woman. I was top of my game… And after that..? What happens then? For that matter what happens when the expat life is over? Do we all go back to normality and forget it ever happened? Do we forget how London smells at Christmas? (like Brussels Sprouts, if you must know) Do we forget how to make ourselves a place in a culture that’s different? Where we don’t know the jokes and the funny TV Series and the back-story about that ‘personality’ who had that thing with that other personality back then, in Essex? What happens when the special expat-ness wears off? Our stories get old. Our Damascus-light experiences and revelations pale in the boring old fluorescent lighting of your old stomping ground. We find it hard to accept but we are no longer ‘special’. No one marvels at our accent. Or asks where we’re from. And we’re we’ve been. No one cares if we’ve seen beggars on the streets or been strip-searched in Ben Gurion (I have.) We become this weird other class. We’re supposed to belong here, it’s our home city after all and yet, something sets us apart. Experience? Wisdom? I honestly don’t know. I expected to come back with global experience and my pockets filled with expat gold. Dufus. The expat gold won’t buy a candy bar from the dairy. It’s simply experience not hard currency. So, I thought I was done. This blog hasn’t been updated, commented, loved for ages. It has been the digital version of a young mum of toddlers. It’s been neglected, taken for granted, and somewhat ignored. I thought maybe I was done. And then once more I came across the wise woman’s vision that changed my mind. That Mrs Woog, she’s a genius, I tell you. And she’s right. I do like writing. Stopping blogging would be like blood letting, and for a sufferer of a haemophiliac disorder that’s not a safe practise. I love writing, and as much as I love your comments and thoughts and ‘audience’, I’m really narcissistic. I do it for myself. My journal scribblings don’t do it for me. I have to tell stories. I’m like the Storyteller with the EverReady battery that keeps going and going and going.. Even if I don’t have comments. Even if my stories are not that ‘expat’ special any longer. Even if I’ve lost my groove or I’ve lost my audience (please come back, I have chocolate and wine..)… I need to write. As a human needs to breathe, a writer needs to write. It’s an Easter Resurrection, I tell you. So, I thought I was done, but it appears you’re stuck with me. Let’s hope I come up with something to say to keep you interested. Have you ever felt like giving something special to you, up? And what changed your mind?