Stop! Watch...

The timer is on.  I've started vaguely doing things.  I've given them a heads up at work that I'll be going, I've given my landlord a heads up.  I've started the process of reactivating my UK bank account, which has the princely sum of £1.95 in it.  Actually I'm surprised it's that much.  I've got a quote for moving and when my mover can stop fucking moving other people for five seconds and confirm my booking, I will feel a lot happier.  I have got boxes and bubble wrap.

Yet still nothing much feels different.  There is a feeling of seismic change coming but much in the way that the San Andreas Fault has been set for the Big One for as long as I can remember, it's still out there somewhere, not quite happening yet.

I keep thinking about August in London.  There's a montage running in my head of me sitting under a shady tree on Hampstead Heath, necking cold wine and just seeping tears of bliss.  Or walking down the South Bank with a dreamy smile.  Or just holding my friends and slobbering on them.  All very Richard Curtis.

The reality will be me rushing about sweatily looking for temp jobs, trying to convince people who don't even need moisturiser yet that this 57 year old fat bitch is exactly what they need right now.  I will probably have a panic attack when I realise I can't remember my way around London.  And as for drinking wine on the Heath, hell no.  I'll just want a piss and get anxious about leaving my stuff for a few minutes to find somewhere and when I do I will pee all down my leggings accidentally.