This weekend I take the plunge I've been planning for, and move into a lovely house in Rotherhithe (Central South East London for those who don't know). I don't know the people I'm living with - apart from the half hour I spent with them looking at the room - but they seem nice, relaxed and interesting. Unlike some of the more vapid people who's rooms I viewed previous to finding this one. The house is right on the river - with beautiful views west to the City, Tower Bridge and the Shard and east to the docklands and Canary Wharf. I have a balcony in my bedroom with the same view. Its in a lovely area with some great pubs, restaurants and shops.
Most importantly, its ridiculously close to work. Currently, from my family home in Higham, Kent I spend about three commuting a day. That's three hours where I'm not doing anything productive, three hours that make my day so long, and that make my evenings so short. My new house is a positively ridiculous half hour WALK from work, or a five minute overground journey, or a fifteen minutes bus journey. That's crazy. I'm going to get so much of my life back; every day I'll be able to spend time doing something I want to do. Like getting fit. Or writing. Or cooking. And no longer will I have to leave social events in the evening with the knowledge of an hour and a half or two hours before I'm home. I'm going to be independent, able to go out and date and not worry about bringing guys home!
So why do I suddenly feel really nervous, emotional and scared? I've been waiting for this moment since coming back from the US in December last year, and its only since getting a well paid job at Alzheimer's Society that I've been able to. Yet now, all I think as the weekend approaches is what if I've made the wrong choice? What if I hate London and want to be back in the countryside? What if I miss people?
I suppose it all feels a bit final. I've left home plenty of times already, but never with the knowledge that when I do, it'll no longer be my home. Of course, my parents will tell you that this place will always be my home and, in some ways, they're right. But it will no longer be the place I know I'm coming back to. For nearly 25 years I've lived in this village, I've grown up here, this is where I know. And now I'm moving into one of the biggest and busiest cities in the world. A city that people have described to me as an incredibly lonely city.
Every night and weekend I have ready made people to spend time with. Yes, these may be my parents, but as someone who needs human company to be energised, I'll grasp at anything I get. Can I guarantee I'll get this in London? No. I love my family, and I will miss them greatly. I am incredibly grateful and utterly indebted to my parents for allowing me to stay here for as long as I have, and supporting me whilst I found the career I wanted. Without them, I'd never have had the chance to do everything I have done. And I will of course miss them. Lots.
I suppose this is normal. Its a massive change and its pretty scary. Its the end of a 25 year period of my life.
But its also the start of a new one. The chance to forge the independent life I've began so stutteringly before, to make new friends, to do everything I want to and to find myself a new neighbourhood. Its ok for me to be emotional (would I be anything other than this? It is me after all) but I know that I want to do it. And I am so excited about what it will bring. Now, to complete all my packing and shopping. Boring.
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