The past 18 months have been consciously consumed by my need to do some career-buidling in the brilliantly fast-paced world of PR. I can happily say that box has been adequately ticked (for now) and i've set my restless sights elsewhere.
I’m not quite sure
what compelled me to peace out from a perfectly respectable standing in the
Sunshine State in pursuit of an open-ended and anonymous adventure abroad…
But somewhere in
between the nine-to-five people pleasing and nights out that were marked by seemingly mandatory (and far-too-familiar) boozed banter - wanderlust won.
Once the decision
was made the shamelessly idealistic Gen-Y within was quick to kick into gear.
Notice was given, a UK working visa was sorted and social outings were sacrificed
to fund future memories.
I have all this
freedom, you see, so I figured it would simply be rude not to exploit it and
yolo*** my way through Europe.
That’s not to say
it was a simple ‘catch ya’ upon departure; bidding farewell to my dearest and
nearest wasn’t easy.
Fortunately, there was a screaming infant seated across the
aisle on my first flight, whom I could (sort of) share my sorrows with. He was
missing his mother’s milk, I was missing my mates… close enough. The mutual moment of discontent was much
appreciated, little man.
And now, we’re
commencing our final descent into my next chapter.
First stop, Paris.
***Please note:
the use of that acronym as a verb - rather than a two-syllable justification
for poor life choices commonly verbalised with a cringe-inducing air of
unintelligence - is far more acceptable, in my opinion. Yolo-ing is totally a
thing.
