I see the envy in people’s eyes when I tell them where I live. My constant travel to countries, regions and continents far removed from the daily commute of suburban England. I come back, flash my suntan around, talk casually of dignitaries met, and post bland Facebook updates of trips to exotic places. And it is wonderful. But, of course, the opposite is also true: for every beach paradise I can also show you an isolated, gossip-ridden, Groundhog Day played out in suffocating humidity.
The cocktail parties, the flagged cars, the endless small talk. It’s something I thought would get easier but I still find it a grind. You might see me at a party, fixed grin, neat dress, nodding along to whatever my companion is saying, looking to the manor born a diplomat’s wife. But I don’t stay quiet because I have nothing to say, or because I am fascinated with the conversation. I have opinions, questions and arguments all boiling away constantly just under the surface, but I can’t share them. Not without risking offence or bad publicity, or at worst, a diplomatic incident. So it’s easier to nod along.
I think back to my 20s when I was outspoken, independent and headstrong, all dramatic eyeliner and scuffed clothes. That person is still in there, but she only comes out behind closed doors, when we’re sure no one’s listening. It’s exhausting. It’s also lonely. Flying back to the UK feels increasingly alien. Moving constantly is a good distraction from how much I miss my friends and family. Meanwhile, I’ll just smile, nod and carry on making the most of my gilded cage.