Culture shocked

Following a five hour Skype session you are in hysterics, sobbing into your keyboard as you beg your mother not to leave you. After she repeatedly rejects your invitation to converse you resign, post a cryptic cry for attention on Facebook, draw the curtains and resume your place in the corner rocking violently to and fro.  As an exchange student you are advised to prevent such scenarios through seeking help upon experiencing the mind-altering affects of culture shock. Strangely, my home University also considered it appropriate to warn us of the very real possibility of pregnancy and marriage. Now I don’t mean to toot my own horn but I’m fairly confident I can avoid accidentally getting married. Pregnancy however, well I would prefer a few extra pounds of cider induced podge than a baby bump.
    Emerging from Heathrow airport dragging a suitcase crammed with thermals and birth control I was buzzing – or at least as much as you can be following a twenty hour commute – and full of confidence. At this stage I assumed I was unshakeable and far too well adjusted to feel the effects of culture shock; after all, as an Australian, I am naturally laid back and completely unfazed by anything of significance.
    Retrospectively speaking this logic was ridiculous. Living in Leeds for over a month now I have been pleasantly shocked by the wonders of the English culture, particularly the techniques students use to save money; from religious pre-drinks to the use of rice in tripling the size of any meal, survivor style. However, these examples merely register as tiny tremors in my mind, in comparison with the shocking reality of acceptable eveningwear.
    Now I’m not about to get into a long-winded diatribe about the values of modest dressing, as I personally don’t care for it, but I am amazed that in this climate coats are disregarded and tights considered optional.  Obviously I am missing the point; clearly I am not as conservative with my cash as first thought if I don’t understand the benefits of saving a pound at the cloakroom.
    This may seem like an insignificant observation, but please understand that I come from a place where 9 degrees means thick tights and jackets for a night out. Admittedly I am secretly jealous. “Why aren’t I that resilient against the elements?” I wonder. “Perhaps I haven’t had enough pre-drinks?” “Maybe I don’t belong here.”   Whatever the reason, I refuse to accept defeat, and from this point on I will not complain. I will accept, conform and suffer quietly while waiting in line.  That is until I’m confronted by the confounding enigma that is chips with curry sauce – wtf?