Amy Adams - Happy Working Song

It's cold now - cold enough for long sleeves, sweatshirts and woolly socks in an unheated room - and I feel like I'm up in the Lake District in the middle of August again.

If I think about it, I had a miserable time in England.

I didn't have proper hiking boots and my trainers weren't waterproof, which resulted in me going up and down a mountain and all over the Lake District in purple wellies which, when I converted it over, cost me less than a pound.

At Soul Survivor, I didn't have a proper cagoule except for an embarressing long, tan, David Tennat-esque one with Burberry print which my mum made me bring because she was absolutely convinced that my sensible black one which served me well in Australia wouldn't be enough. I would have more likely tripped over the long hem going up the mountain and tumbled down into the glacial valley below.

And then, I didn't shower for four days at Soul Survivor. It was horribly gross. My hair got nasty. I wasn't at my most attractive. And when I did take a shower, the portable shower had a puddle of nasty, soapy, muddy water which I had to stand in because the water wouldn't drain away properly.

It was the middle of August and I was catching colds and suffering from allergic reactiosn to the tons of carpets they lay down in the house. (For goodness' sake, they have carpets in their bathrooms.) I was constantly tramping around in sweatshirts (there was one warm day there), scarves, et cetera...

To top it off, while we were in Wales, I was sleeping alone in a tent (a purple, "pappy" [as Emma would say] tent) while a storm raged, causing me to nearly inhale the waterproof material as it billowed in my face while I slept.

Also, when we went swimming in the Welsh sea, all my friends had wetsuits while I ran into the water with my summer swim suit. (Okay, Tom, Jake and Isaac had no wetsuits either, but that doesn't count; they're boys. I'm not acknowledging their superiority, I'm just saying that they're guys.) I might as well have gone in stark naked.

Then, in London, my friend convinced me that you had to wear a skirt to a West End show. My skirt is built for summer and not for wind, causing it nearly to expose my plain, cotton "Mummy-pants" (in the words of Bridget Jones) as I climbed the steps up the Apollo Victoria Theatre.

*fume*

But anyway.

I <3 U.K.