Today marks the day, 26 years ago, when I first arrived in the UK. I have now lived here longer than I lived in the country I was born in.
It also marks the day, 18 years ago, when my (then boyfriend now) husband and I moved into our house. This is the longest I have ever lived at any address.
It’s funny how things change. I arrived here with almost no money, took the first job I was offered (which was awful and nearly broke me) and found myself not living a rich life in London like I had dreamed but living a very poor life in Lancashire which was a nightmare. Cue eight years of changing jobs and addresses and towns and friends and forwarded mail and missed connections and lost belongings. Cue temping and contracts and new systems and new people and working out buses and trains and metros. Cue good bosses, bad bosses and people whose names I can’t even remember. Cue flatmates who became best mates, flatmates who were psychos and drug dealers and monsters, and flatmates who became husbands (well, husband – singular). Cue travel, and debt, and working two jobs, one job, any job because there is always rent and bills to pay and travel to save for.
And now I’m here, right where I’m supposed to be, because how could I be anywhere else?