As the sorting-out of my life in transition continues, I’m afraid I’ve become something of a broken record. It has been pointed out to me that it is not only okay, but in fact more or less mandatory for me to be freaking out at least a little about this change, so I’ve resolved to allow myself to do so. I’m trying to strike the precarious balance between admitting that this is a huge deal (and exciting and daunting and fabulous and scary and wow all at the same time), and wallowing in the state I like to refer to as complete and utter train wreck. I’m listening to a lot of cheerful punk, and spending as much time as I can with my wonderful, fabulous friends, and sorting and packing (less of that than I should be doing, really) and looking at London real estate that I’ll never be able to afford. As a result of all this, the only things I seem to be writing are saparific odes of thanks to my friends and family, and even schmoopier poetry of the same ilk. Which I am far too polite to subject you to.
I can promise a little amusing imagery in the next few days, provided I remember to pick up a certain photo off a friend’s kitchen table and scan it in, and there’s another girls’ night tonight which may or may not produce some anecdotes fit for public consumption, but other than that I’m afraid there may well be a whole lotta nothin’ going on here. The one bit of hard news that I can share is that my ticket is booked: I’ll be leaving on November 30. I’ll be back for Christmas and New Year’s, but by then I’ll be officially living in London. Whoa.