A few weeks ago I accidentally wrote a self-indulgent (more self-indulgent that normal), schmaltz-fest post. It was New Year, I was feeling fragile.I came over all reflective and found myself banging on about learning lessons and needing focus and about how I long to get out of here. Yep. There was definitely some longing. It just happened, I’m sorry. The crux of the post was this: I’m moving to London. With Garry. And Smokey Cat. We leave Glasgow on Monday 27th February.
People keep asking me how I feel. “How do you feel?” I’ve had a migraine for a week. I can’t lower my shoulders from my earlobes. I have this weird stabbing pain in my right shoulder blade. There’s something wrong with my eye and I have the constant, eeking feeling my neck might snap. I don’t say that, of course. I say, “Fine thanks. Y’know – excited and nervous”. Then they ask what I’ll do in London. “What will you do in London?”. I make a joke about the streets being paved with gold and then I twiddle my hair. I find it harder than usual to make eye contact. What will I do in London? What will I DO in London? What will I do in London?