After nearly 4.5 years in Scotland I've finally exchanged my Australian drivers licence for a UK one. You're supposed to do this after 12 months of residency, but strangely I couldn't bear to part with it.
My Australian Capital Territory licence was a particularly shithouse shade of lemon yellow, looking like it was cobbled together by kindergarteners with a laminating machine. Splashed across the top was a stern warning: DON'T DRINK AND DRIVE. Every time Gareth saw it he'd sqwark, "DOWNT DRINKEN DROIVE!" in his really convincing Australian accent. Sometimes when intoxicated I'd gaze at my old Braddon address and postcode and get a wee bit misty-eyed.
Now I have this shiny new drab and dreary UK licence. For some reason they've turned the photo into black and white so my features are smudged and broody like a serial killer. There's a dorky sense of pride at finally having a proper photo ID with my Scottish address, but more pathetically, I feel bereft. The last little piece of Australia is gone from my wallet! Oz just seems further and further away lately, yet there are moments (like at a wedding last night as I bumbled through all the ceilidh dances) when Scotland feels as bewildering and foreign as that first day.