It’s been a year since I’ve told anymore of the story of me moving from down South to Wigan, and I want to pick up where I left off.
My relocation date was agreed for Friday 9th April 2010. With that came two important jobs.The first, with much regret, I needed to sell my beautiful Mazda MX-5, Rosie. My Dad, who’s a bit of a car man was very much under the impression that I needed something cheaper to run and a bit newer. So I regretfully ended up with a Fiesta (which was an absolute bargain and has served me well. I have never named that car though and is more fondly these days referred to as “The Shed on Wheels”).
The second, and perhaps more exciting prospect, was trying to find my first home. As I wasn’t familiar with the local area, but knew that I wanted to live a reasonably close drive to work away, I just searched for everywhere within a five mile radius that was in my budget. My criteria was furnished and around about £450pcm (to any Southerners reading this, believe me it really is possible!).
Some of the properties I viewed were absolute horrors (but not as horrific as I discovered four years later. I’ll save that for another time though). Sometimes the place was quite shabby and in others it was simply a case of the area just not feeling quite safe. I probably viewed about 8 properties all in one Saturday and finally stumbled upon what was soon to be home when I’d all but given up. I fell in love with the apartment in Shalefield Gardens in Wigan almost immediately. It was modern, spacious and I felt safe. It was a touch out of my planned budget but it was affordable. My heart immediately told me that it was the one, but my Dad felt that I should sleep on it. Through fear of someone beating me to it, I ignored my Dad’s advice which I don’t often do, and signed straight on the line. I’ve never once regretted it.
When Mum and Dad came up with me the weekend of my moving a month later, they both pleased with my decision and felt that they could rest easy, knowing that I was in a nice home in a safe area.
Over the years, so many people have asked me how I could just up sticks and leave. I’ve always maintained that I desperately wanted a change and I needed to spread my wings. Not to mention, I could never have afforded to do that down South. Being able to relocate with work just made things easier for me, and the redundancy situation bore no influence on the decisions that I made.
The real proof in realising that moving was the right thing came when of the 60 odd people I’d invited to my leaving do, just 6 showed up (luckily it was in the pub and not in any kind of function room. That would have been embarassing!) The real slap in the face came the next day when a “friend” asked me why I wasn’t having a leaving do, and I responded that I did have one the night before and he’d been invited to it. It showed me just how much value my so-called friends placed on our friendship and made it so easy for me to turn my back on them. For them not to show was bizarre, because when I’d told people I was going they’d begged me to stay. Except for one person. That person deserves a whole blog post herself (which I’ll write some other time), and that’s Lucy. Lucy was the only person (family aside) who encourged me to go. She knew that it was what I needed. Ironically, she’s the only person from my ‘past life’ that I’m still in touch with and actually we’re closer than ever.