This one is nothing personal to anyone who has wished me well in my 'new life'. I am interested in our obsession with distance and finality. It seems to be a bit of a British thing, that if someone leaves, there is this idea that that means that they will never return. Perhaps it is a national insecurity that we do not have as much to offer as these faraway 'paradises'. Anyway, this little poem was a slow burning reaction to the idea that by living abroad I am in some way starting a 'new life'. Enjoy.
One by one they wish me
good luck with my new life.
I stretch them an elasticated grin
when do I tell them
that I’m not cashing this life in?
That I haven’t applied for a refund?
that I won’t be starting from scratch,
at almost 30 years in?