I've officially ended my life in London. I thought it would be heartbreaking, but it actually feels just fine. I arrived in London on Thursday morning with my toothbrush, a couple of empty bags and my partner in crime, ready to attack the nine boxes I've had in storage for the past 18 months, containing my previous life.

The truck arrived on Friday morning. In just two hours, we dragged the nine boxes into our hotel room, dived into them, sorted the contents into five boxes of crap, four boxes that we passed straight onto the charity shop across the street, and shoved the remaining 65 kg into one suitcase and two bags. Piece of piss. However, I'll admit it did seem like an impossible task at first glance.

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After my previous London trip, I was actually sobbing at Heathrow when I left. Surprisingly, it seems that I have now come to terms with London being a completed chapter of my life. I just can't keep clinging onto it. Instead, Wifey and I spent three days catching up with old friends, making a decent attempt at spending all our money on shopping, consuming a very large amount of alcohol and crying with laughter at the memories we've made in my favourite city.

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Now to the unpacking.