Most of my friends, when I talk to them about their future plans; homes, jobs etc, have a relatively firm idea of where it is they could see themselves settling down in the UK and already have a list of happy potentials. When the question is turned on me however, I draw a blank. For a fair few years now I’ve harbored the irrational *rational* belief that I’m not supposed to live in England.

I came to this infallible conclusion in my final year of University, after three long years of enduring strange looks from Northerners when hearing my sheepishly voiced confession that;

“actually, I don’t drink tea”.

Shock horror, I’ve never liked it and highly doubt I ever will. One of my closest friends has a similar aversion and her love of travel and desire to escape this country are strikingly similar to my own. This being said, my full-proof thesis is this; not liking tea is England’s way of subconsciously informing you that, in fact, you don’t belong.

There are a few other subtle hints that England is throwing my way. When it comes to ‘The Great British Fry-Up’, I struggle… I’ve never liked eggs (manifesting in any form) and am not a massive fan of fried tomatoes/mushrooms. Therefore, ordering a breakfast is a bit of an ordeal and usually consists of a mash up of bacon, beans and hash browns.

Finally, the archetypal bah humbug snow rant. Where everyone else is getting excited about snow days, snow men and snow angels, I’m panicking about how me and my constant lack of coordination are going to cope. I’m lucky enough to live at the bottom of a very snowy hill and my car is about as pathetic at moving on snow as I am on my feet. (A ten minute walk this morning saw me falling over twice). Growing up, I can probably count on one hand the amount of times I remember a proper snow covering and these days it’s becoming a regular occurrence.

It’s like global warming and England are joining forces to dissuade me from putting down roots.