I left my job today; there's now no going back. This afternoon I found myself sitting in a well-known Mayfair restaurant enjoying a farewell lunch with the founding partners of my firm and seriously began to question my sanity. I'm voluntarily walking away from all this. Hmmm... I turned the lights off in my office this evening, bid everyone a rather phoney, cheery farewell and stepped out into the snow. The waiting taxi whizzed me through the West End, over Chelsea Bridge and before I knew it I was home. For good.


In theory we move house next Friday. I'm somewhat baffled by the fact that after two months of conveyancing we are still waiting to exchange on either property. I have no idea how we are going to pull everything together in the next seven days, but I remain firmly optimistic. I refuse to be defeated by a chain of buyers and sellers, each with their own agenda. Until now I always found it rather melodramatic when people told me that moving house was one of the most stressful events in your life, on a par with death and divorce. I'm slightly dismayed to find that I'm starting to understand why. 


So there we are, tomorrow is the first day of my new life, that of a full-time mummy. And do you know what? I can't wait.

The countdown is beginning...

OMG the countdown is beginning; it’s now less than three weeks till d-day… In twenty one days’ time I will uproot Music Man (my beloved husband), DD1 and DD2, from the comfort of our beautiful south London terraced house to start a new life by the sea, four hours’ drive from everything we know. Who’s idea was this? I have a horrible feeling it was mine.

I’ve spent the last ten years working like a lunatic recruiting bankers in the City, making lots of money and living a wonderfully self-indulgent existence. Having always lived and breathed London life, I suddenly found myself longing for an aga, a vegetable garden and loads of children. I can understand why my mother thought  it was essential to pay for me to visit a shrink last month - I’ve clearly lost the plot.

I’m suddenly finding myself developing a weird desire to go round London on an open-top bus, to go and see a ghastly musical on Shaftesbury Avenue and to watch the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. However, I’m also desperately wondering how I can squeeze in an afternoon at the Bliss Spa on Sloane Avenue, spend a few hours wandering round boutiques in Covent Garden and meet Music Man for blow-out meal in a Michelin starred restaurant. But then again my nails are only going to get chipped when we move, only Geoff Capes would be strong enough to knead out the tension knots in my shoulders right now and my choice of outfit might look slightly out of place by the coast.

The gravity of my situation hit me full on, in the face at speed, last week.  My gorgeous girlfriends took me out for supper and bought me a Cath Kidson tea towel and an Aga cook book as my leaving London presents and I was thrilled. I tried not to cry; there’s no hiding from it, it’s time to embrace the new me…