Wednesday, 8 February 2012


This time a year ago, I jacked everything in. I left my job and my (rented, shared) flat and put stuff in storage and set out.  I didn't have a plan. I didn't have a right lot of money. I just had this kind of hopeful, nervous belief that things would somehow just about work out alright.

I went to India and travelled around being awed by friendly people and stunning temples and the most beautiful mountains in the world and life-threatening driving to get to them.

I came back to London and stayed on sofas and felt some angst to be doing this in my thirties.

I moved to Budapest, and continue to be impressed and delighted by the experience of living abroad. (mental right-wing governments aside).

I fell in love (swiftly, glorously) and out of it again (slowly, painfully).

I did a minimal amount of writing, but a maximum amount of living.  

If I was writing this as a real-life story for a women's magazine, there would be a Triumphant Conclusion. The Unforeseen Setbacks would be overcome, it would all crescendo to a Moment of Truth, and I would be sure that Everything Had Worked Out Great In The End.

I'm not sure I ever feel quite like that. Life is complicated. There are ups and downs, wherever in the world you are. Today is not a great day.  I don't really know where I'm going or what I'm doing.

But there's never a day when I regret leaving a job where I felt chained to a desk every day, looking out over the grey roofs of south London in a office devoid of life, devoid of laughter. There's never a day when I regret choosing the complicated mess and uncertainty of adventure and risk and taking a change and sometimes feeling down but sometimes feeling up in the clouds. Always, whatever my mood, feeling alive.