I'm sitting in a pub in East London, two steps from my old place. I'm surrounded by some of the most amazing people that I am lucky to know, who are, by far and away, the greatest friends. I'm wondering why in hell's name I am leaving London for the second time. Was moving from London to Paris not difficult enough?
Someone I know recently told me that after all their shenanigans abroad, they wouldn't hesitate to stay put, forever. I didn't quite understand why, until now.
Packing turns over old skeletons.