Following on from my previous post, I have a confession: this is not the first year in which I have resolved to start a blog. Actually, it’s more like the fourth or fifth – but who’s counting?
The problem has always been that I am a notorious procrastinator I didn’t actually have anything to write about. Don’t get me wrong, I had plenty going on in my life and it was certainly interesting enough to me – but I can’t say that most aspects of it would have made for particularly riveting reading material.
HOWEVER, shortly before Christmas, I fulfilled an almost-lifelong dream and the realization of that dream is, in my heavily biased opinion, well worth reading about.
Quite simply*, I got up from my desk at midday one drizzly, grey Friday afternoon, went from the office to New Street station (stopping only at my apartment to grab my suitcase), caught a train to London, hopped on the Eurostar – and voila.
I moved to Paris. Just like that.
*Disclaimer: “simply” is the operative word here. The above, although entirely true, is a gross over-simplification of what was actually an immensely hectic and stressful process, featuring three route changes; a genuine near-death experience; and a mad dash through the back alleys of Birmingham, two heavy bags and a horribly over-stuffed suitcase in tow, in a desperate bid not to miss my train. Which, once I had staggered on-board, dishevelled and gasping for breath with mere seconds to spare until departure time, then had the audacity to leave twenty minutes late.
The simplified version sounds much more romantic, non?