My last week in London is underway. I’m moving home on Sunday, if all goes to plan by mid-afternoon me and my dad will be in the car heading north, leaving London in the rearview mirror.
It was three weeks ago today that, after a horrible four hour long commute to work (tube strikes are firmly on my list of things I won’t miss), I sat in my manager’s office and handed over my resignation letter. Since then the fact I’m leaving has got steadily more real, telling my colleagues the following day, meeting friends for last meals before I go, packing up my belongings and waving them off it my parents’ car – these have all been big steps.
This week holds the final steps. Dinner and theatre tomorrow with my oldest friend, my last day at work on Friday complete with leaving drinks (seriously, my colleagues love an excuse for a drink – second to some kind of “that’s a shame, I’m sorry you’re going” came “are you having drinks” from pretty much everyone), and then the last bits of packing before the off on Sunday. My flatmates had the first viewing for my room tonight, this is absolutely definitely happening.
At lunchtime today one of my colleagues asked me for the three things I’d least miss about work. The only thing I could come up with was my commute. I think that’s why, however much know it’s the right move, leaving my job is going to be so hard. And I think that makes me very lucky indeed.