Less than two weeks ago, I decided to move to London, and it may very well prove to be the biggest mistake of my adult life.
But then again, it might not. Let’s look at it this way, my personal life had gone to shit, my freelance career prospects were fairly hampered by geography and with the exception of two most excellent gents, most of my BFFs live in The Big Smoke. So as I sat alone in a friend’s London flat after escaping a particularly fraught situation in Bristol, watching the rain throw itself against the window, it all seemed to click into place.
And indeed, so far it has. Logistically, at least. I’m all set to up sticks and move to another new city in less than seven days. Granted, there’s the small matter of packing my life into the scores of boxes currently inhabiting every available crevice of my room, but as an Army Brat I’m a seasoned pro at packing up and shipping out at a moment’s notice (this will be the 20th house I’ve lived in, that I can recall, in my 26 years).
Crowds. I hate crowds. And being squashed. And listening to crap music leaking from tinny earphones. Not to mention my general dislike of paying more for rent than I’m liable to earn in a month. And a complete lack of greenery. And the ability to breathe.
You see the issue.
But then the pay off is a huge adventure that I’m liable to miss out on if I leave it too much longer. After all, I’m not getting any younger (thanks, Mum!). Now or never. A whole new chapter. New people, new work, new haunts and new stories.
So here we go. Rachel. In London.