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0 reviewsI was an Irish girl transplanted to London for a decade, swapping the seaside and village of Sandycove – with its little shops and the beach, the people, the way the clouds skidded in for a storm, the rainbows that blossomed afterwards – for the bright lights, the traffic and the incessant noise of London. My visits home had become sporadic to the point of paltry. There was never enough time for a long trip and so my visits were only ever two nights long. Even last Christmas I'd flown in on Christmas Eve and was gone the 27th. I'd barely seen Mum or my best friend Bronagh and when Mum drove me to the airport and hugged me goodbye, I had the feeling that we were losing each other, as though we were becoming strangers.
London had become a slog, working twelve-hour days for my toxic boss, Maribelle, who drank vodka from her water bottle and didn't believe in bank holidays. Or weekends. Or going home for the evening. Or eating.
Or, frankly, anything that made life worth living. If it wasn't for my flatmate, Roberto, my London life would have been utterly miserable.
Looking back now, I think the reason why I kept going out with Jeremy for six months, even though we were entirely unsuited, was because at least it was something. And if I've learned anything about life over the last year, it's that you should do something, but never the least of it.