The end of it all

If last week I was enjoying the refreshing breeze that comes with a change in the air, then this week the wind is up and I’m at the mercy of something rather stronger. I’m leaving my job, my routines, my back and forth – the framework to my life as I know it. And this shedding of my workaday skin means there’s rather a lot to do. Leaving work, I’ve discovered, is a job in itself: the repeated announcements, the delving into one’s motivations to satisfy oneself and others, the form-filling, the exit interview, the return of company property. I’m running around settling scores and attempting to leave my slate as clean as clean can be.

And it’s dawning on me that I’m what’s commonly known as ‘demob happy’ – an expression I don’t think I’ve ever turned on myself before. But the fallout from all of this is, of course, that Girl on the 7.42 must cease to exist, and my weekly rendez-vous with this otherwise blank space is coming to an end. Because this time I’m stepping off the 7.42 for good.

And the reason for all of this? It seems to boil down to the following: it’s time I lived in Paris; it’s time I was French for a while; and it’s time my all-too-English son was given the chance to turn into the French child he might, in another existence, have been. (And perhaps a little ambient sophistication will rub off on me and make my Parisian mother proud.)

And what of the husband? He’s staying behind to hold the fort and hold onto his job. But he’s already booked the ferry tickets to make absolutely sure that we do return home at the end of it all.