Moving away, abroad or otherwise, is hard. There is no doubt that changing address, packing your belongings, new bank accounts, insurance, mobile number, culture, language, job, and worst of all - saying goodbye to loved ones, cause unrelenting stress and the occasional outburst of tears. I am no exception to this rule.
So there, I said it. I cried. Cried so much that my eyes stung and my breath got caught in my lungs in shoulder shuddering sobs. Cried so violently that I felt sick, and for so long, that I forgot what I was crying about. Am I ashamed? Not one bit.
This outburst of emotion at seeing an all important train pull away from the platform can only be descibed as release; the physical acknowledgement of the physical changes I have made to my life. Mourning the loss of one stage, and acceptance for the next. For better or for worse, time must move forward, and change must ensue.
This is not to say that I wouldn't kill to spend tonight in my own bed, in a corner of Surrey neatly tucked in next to the airport and motorway, midst the din of family arguments, my sister's excellent baking, and a nutty hound, but I cannot dispute the appeal of everything in my new environment.
Yes, relatively, I am alone, but that only means I have room to make new friends. No, I cannot speak the language very well, but I will just have to learn; millions of people do it every year. The weather is dismal, the fashion is appalling and to say the people are conservative is an understatement, but that does not mean I will not adapt.
In conclusion, I wanted to share this horrendously personal insight into my life for the sake of all the people resisting changes in their's, whether greater or smaller than mine, because sometimes it's good to know that someone else had a crap time too.
But, always remember the great philosopher Derek Trotter and his wise words, "This time next year, we'll be millionaires", and maybe one day, just like him, your optimism will be rewarded with riches beyond your belief.
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