BREXILE: I left my soul in SW19

 

     New Year’s Eve 1995/6

This where I get personal. 

Not much about brands or ads, but a lot of me-me-me. (I’m entitled, though, aren’t I?)

Next year’s big project will be clearing out and selling up. Going into Brexile officially. I’m dreading it, but perhaps it’ll be therapeutic to jot down my feelings and experiences so I can look back and laugh.

It’s also a chance to regurgitate some of my creative writing. This first piece was written in 2010, so 14 years ago, but also 14 years after my move here.

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I LEFT MY SOUL IN SW19

 

In March 1996, I jumped the great ship Britannia as she sailed towards the island of Cool. My one-way ticket cut through the Heathrow fog like a landing-light. Terminal 1 echoed with finality – no going back?

 

London still slept but my mind already marched to the beat of the Teutonic clock. My heart followed more than willingly, long lost in the mists of a fairytale.

 

Only my English soul stayed stubborn. 

 

Like my mishandled baggage, it was wrenched kicking and screaming from the conveyor belt at Frankfurt. 

 

The tear could not be repaired.

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