I’m torn between headlining this column ‘Why I’m moving to Portugal’ and ‘Why I’m leaving the UK’. Exhausted, shadowed by tippling towers of cardboard, once more unable to put my hands on a black marker when I bought a whole box or to locate a tape gun when we have bloody four of them, in all having perversely disassembled a working household into a shambled heap, I am hard-pressed to answer either question. Why have I done this to myself? Remind me.
If the UK is falling on hard times, isn’t it when you’re down on your luck that your mates should rally round?
On the positive side, I have knocked together a thumbnail for friends. Shifting to a new country is ‘a last big adventure’, and my husband and I are at an age that we probably have only one big daring leap left in us. The more obvious alternative, returning to our native United States, would have felt like retreat.
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