Listen to this story being read by Gemma Bath here.
A week after my 25th birthday, clutching a one-way ticket to a city I had never been before, I told my parents in our parting embrace, "I don't know when I will come home, maybe never".
My poor mum and dad. I'm pretty sure that broke them in two right then and there, not that they showed any trace of that to me.
In the space of six months I had quit everything. My relationship of four-ish years, my job in breakfast radio (a position I had been working towards my entire career) and my whole support system.
For a laugh: Horoscopes at the airport. Post continues after video.
I'd decided to move to London; a place I'd never been, where I had no real connections or friends and that was cold... my least favourite weather. I had no job prospects, just a list of contacts I'd fumbled together after deciding on my new adventure.
I've always been a saver so I had a chunk of cash, about $10,000, in my account. I knew that would keep me going for a while if I struggled to get work, although I was keen to secure a steady income quick smart to fund my hunger to travel. I had a month-long European adventure already in the diary for around my four-month mark. I figured I'd have everything sorted by then.
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