Having lived in London for six years, it is with more than a slight curiosity by which people respond to the news that Alex and I are going away. It strikes a discord with the Londoner's Handbook which requires people slaving away hours in a job that only pays barely enough to cover rent and a social life. Some people even compromise the social life - I can name more than a few. Somehow this ingrained mentality has rebranded itself into a civic responsibility that we are required, that we owe the organisations we work for and the city we work in, our lives. And I for one am defying this principle.
Some think I have always defied this by my choice of careers, but they are wrong. I am like you too.
Don't get me wrong - financial security is important for being able to provide for your family and your future and I don't disagree that this is a responsibility everybody should shoulder. But we only have one life and I want to be able to reflect on it as being full of colour and adventure; miracles and the lightness of being. Charged and vibrant memories. A year of seeing the world will provide me more of these than a lifetime of servitude in London. It will also, I hope, give me a breadth of perspective, a renewed sense of self, zest and appreciation of life's fragility and its vitality. But I will also go without expecting any of this to happen, releasing all sense of expectation and burdensome benchmarks - so this trip does not fall short in any way.
Lately I have felt a little plagued by a sense of responsibility. Guilt. It is more one that I have placed on myself than impinged by other people but those can often be the hardest to bear. It is moral. Even worse.
My mum has cancer.
It feels wrong.
I know, mum, if you were reading this right now, you would say "don't be silly". And you're right. But nevertheless, it is a cross that I can't help but bear. I can't help but feel guilty, ashamed that whilst I am lounging on a beach, gazing at a sunset, gin and tonic in hand with a little wooden umbrella, that you might be lying in bed exhausted, throwing up into a bucket, or shedding hair. I am scared for you and it just feels wrong that I will not be there with you - tucking you up in a blanket, rubbing your back or squeezing your hand. I am laying my shame bare.
You and I have been talking a lot about control. And in certain circumstances, the need to relinquish it. Neither of us are very good at this. And I need to accept that this is a situation where both you and I have to let go - you of your body and me of my sense of right and wrong. That in the adventures that Alex and I face ahead, we will experience a part of life that you have dreamed for me since I was born and, in spirit, you too will ride elephants, jump off cliffs, barter for silks, read a map upside down, order dog off a menu (by accident), fart loudly in a temple. And in regaling with you, I will offer the best home remedy possible - distraction through love.
So I cannot promise that I will shake off this horrible feeling about leaving you before I get on the plane. This might have to be something I do a few thousand feet up in the sky with a hefty drink. And I might have my moments on the other side of the world where I stumble and need to call you for reassurance. I hope that's ok. Sometimes your example can be a little too hard to follow.
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