Time to go

The flat is quiet on my second to last morning here. Upstairs in the living room my sister is fast asleep on the inflatable air mattress, surrounded by boxed-up bits of my life. It took two carloads for me to move in here. Now, six months later, I've had to buy 25 boxes and hire a van.

There are four plastic sacks full of clothes, a huge box of beauty products I never use and an entire bag stuffed to the brim with coathangers. Just hangers, nothing else. I just seem to accumulate crap as I roll through life.

Next to my bed is the one bag that isn't going into storage, the one I'm taking with me to Italy. It's not big enough. It makes me feel wobbly not having my things around me, I keep panicking and shoving more stuff in, as if the more I have the more I'll be able to control the next eight weeks.

It's funny how everyone's reacted to the idea of me going to Italy to think about life, work, relationship breakups etc. My friends are really excited, predicting some kind of chick-lit coming-of-age romance with a totally unsuitable Italian man. Some people think I'm doing the wrong thing, abandoning my life when it's in a crisis. Interestingly my mum is supportive, even though it means I won't see her for a couple of months.

I know it's the right thing to do, though. If it doesn't work I can always come back, having tried. My whole adult life I've always known where I'm going to be this time next week, next month and next year. And for the first time I have no idea. So let's just see where it takes me.