One morning in March I shocked many – including myself – when I suddenly upped and moved to a country where I don’t speak the language, with a man I’d been going out with for five months and no job except some vague ideas about freelance writing.
Ten days earlier I had been preparing to fly back to Manchester from my boyfriend’s house in rural France after eating oysters by the sea, which must have got me a bit excited because I suggested that next time I visit I might not leave. Not sure if the other was joking, both of us nonchalantly shrugged in a very Gallic fashion and said “pour qua pas?” (well, I said “why not?” as I can’t speak French). The following morning I resigned from my job as a BBC journalist before either of us could change our minds.
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