For someone who tends to think about things a lot, the decision to move away from England was surprisingly unremarkable. I guess it’s not always easy to see how monumental something is at the time, and hoping for the best is as good a strategy as anything else. I can see myself now, aged 24, the day I left. My rucksack on the back seat of the car. I can picture my friends, waving from the door of our shared house in Bermondsey. We’d lived together as students, and now we’d all transported ourselves to a house in London. We’d studied for four years to be nurses, and now here we were, with proper jobs and everything. But something was missing, the boy I’d fallen in love with was in a different country. My phone bills were huge. We’d discussed him moving to London, but in the end I’d been the one to suggest that I move to Norway. It would be an adventure, and the town where my boyfriend lived was beautiful. Yep, I was ready to leave London. I’d learn the language and get a job. I promptly filled out the papers to start the process of getting my education recognised in Norway. I’m efficient, me. A few months later, and there I was, driving off towards a new life with barely a backward glance. All I remember thinking was that I hoped the ugly display cabinet in my room that I’d flatpacked one day when I couldn’t stand to look at it any more, would stay upright now that I’d hastily reassembled it.