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We have sold the sofas, the desk, the dining room table. These things are gone, along with our beloved dive books. Sold because we can’t carry them.

Even my fish book, carried thousands of miles across the world has gone to a new home in Queensland – donated to our lovely housemate. Its pages stuck together from downpours in Vladivostok, pored over for hours in the Seychelles and Vietnam and Northern Australia, fish identified, arguements whether it was this coral or that one we saw, notes written on its pages.

Clothes have been sorted – some thrown out, others put aside for Thailand

We have sold ten things on ebay

There are 14 new listings – stuff that’s left is in a wierd kind of limbo – not yet sold, not packed, still used occasionally by people who no longer really own them.

The house looks empty, the rooms echo, the dive gear has been packed, its cupboard cleaned out, we sit on cushions on the floor, we’re worried we won’t get rid of everything in time.

Its less stressful than leaving the UK. Maybe we are veterans now. Experts at packing up our lives and leaving. Selling everything. Going on the next big adventure.

At work I’ve said goodbye to people who have gone on holiday, or away for business. I’m sad to think I may never see them again. It’s such a long way between here and home.

I’ve cleared my to-do list of new jobs, delegated my duties, finished projects.

It’s right. It feels so right to be coming home.

2 weeks to go.

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