…big news.
So, I promised BIG news last week and I hate to disappoint but you will just have to wait a few lines before I tell you; you people need to learn some self-restraint. Firstly, let me start with some minor news: this week I announced I was leaving my job. “What, this job?”, I hear you cry. Yes, that’s right: the job I love, the job in which I was recently promoted, the job where I just hired an office junior to be my flunkie. I am leaving. As with all bad news, I tried to give them an upshot: “I am leaving - but not for three months!” The silver lining didn’t work as well as I had hoped, but at least I am leaving on a high. “Surely this is BIG news!”, you wail in disbelief. (Scary how in touch I am with your inner monologue, isn’t it?). Hang on to your hats, dear reader; here comes the big news:
In twelve weeks I am moving to Australia.
So, as you can see, leaving my job is small potatoes compared to leaving the country and moving to the other side of the world in three months’ time. There’s so much to do! When you think about emigrating you always think that it takes forever and you have all the time in the world to think about what needs to be done, what you will do with this piece of furniture or that bank account, and to a certain extent that is true. James and I sent in our visa application last November, and for the past eight months we have simply been waiting for a response. Those eight months could have been spent planning what to do with our furniture when we move, or looking at the best transfer deals for our money, or even just packing; but you don’t want to jump the gun so we held off. I took that promotion at work, went on this committee and that training course and generally carried on as though we weren’t waiting for someone to make a decision that could change our lives. And then it came: we were in and we have to be there before 2 January 2009 or you can whistle for it. And that’s when the clock started ticking.
Eight months of waiting seemed like such a long waste of time when I woke up that morning and realised that I had to quit my job, pack up my life, leave my house and say goodbye to my friends, and all before Christmas. But even then the magnitude of it all didn’t hit me. I’ve moved house before, I moved town and county; hell, I’ve moved country before (although I was very young at the time, so I’m not sure if that counts). It was just another day in the life of Sven. We booked our flights and I took it all in my stride, so much so that I actually forgot to tell my parents the date we were flying because it was just ’something else we were doing’, like it was a weekend in the country or something. (We’re arriving in Sydney on an Airbus A380 - let it not be said we don’t do things in style.) I handed in my notice with a heavy heart but still with a surreal ‘this isn’t really happening’ feeling, and even my e-mail circular for those who missed the announcement stated that ‘I haven’t left yet, so it’s business as usual till I do’, as though business as usual is the natural state, and my leaving is a temporary aberration.
The only time that I became slightly aware of how big a change this will be, is when I had to turn down a thirtieth birthday party invitation for Ben. For ages now we’ve been telling friends that we might not make their wedding next year because we will be living in Australia (and wouldn’t you know it, every couple and their dog is getting married next year: it’s like some kind of matrimonial conveyor belt), but next year is so far away that it wasn’t like we were really saying ‘no’. Ben turns thirty a fortnight after we leave, and I suddenly got very sad that this was the first party I was definitely going to miss. I don’t expect you to have any sympathy, after all I shall be arriving in time for summer in Sydney rather than spending a weekend in Glasgow in the middle of winter, but that was my first inkling that this is actually happening.
Back when I was doing am dram, James asked me if I got stage fright or pre-show jitters. Some people get nervous hours before the show starts; I’ve never had that. Instead, I get a short moment immediately before I go on stage where I wonder whether it’s too late to run out the back door and disappear into the night. Of course I never did and the show went on and I loved it, but if you see a tall, thin twenty-something running full pelt away from Heathrow at about 10pm on 11 November, well, that will be me. Try not to run me over.
