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This is not Miami

December 19, 2009

Seven years in London can rush by. I have fond memories of being driven up to my halls of residence: it was a beautifully crisp, sunny day and once the brief wave of anxiety subsided, I was dancing on endorphins. Nothing could have ruined the sheer joy I felt at being there at last. I would take long walks discovering new pockets and streets, almost pinching myself in that I was living in such a diverse, wonderful place. Even after seven years, having lived both north and south of the river, I still feel as though I have only taken in a sniff of what there is on offer and what I am potentially missing out on.

However, it is definitely time for a change. South Thames deanery is enormous and I took advantage of this in that I opted to move further south, towards Brighton. It seems strange in a way, because I have always anticipated being in London for the first couple of years as a junior doctor, probably because I was curious to know what it was like to live here with a disposable income.

If I get my first choice preference, I’ll more than likely feel a pang of panic and regret, but ultimately I know I’ll carry a piece of what I’ve come to call home with me. The essence of an environment can permeate its way into the body’s cells – it is part of me and I feel as though I am a part of it: I fell in love in his nightclubs, I fucked in her flats, I tiptoed around the libraries, I cried, I revised, I went a little mad and I recovered. So in a way, I feel a great deal of reassurance in that I can live somewhere else always knowing I’m involved in a tiny part of that fascinating ecosystem. But a change of scenery is in order. Much as I love London, no single city can meet a person’s needs and we both have more than enough love to go around.

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