By my mid-20s, I’d somehow miraculously managed to branch out into the real world. I had been to university (back when there were no fees and no real pressures). I’d got a job. (“A journalist,” I thought. “That sounds secure and well paid.”) I had even moved in with a girlfriend. All safe in the knowledge that I could rely on my parents to bail me out financially or emotionally should it ever go catastrophically awry.
So when it did all go wrong (dumped by girlfriend; sacked by job), it seemed strange to decide to move to the other side of the world, where my mum would be too far away for an “It’s all right, dear” hug. Luckily, I had my best friend, Phil, who had reached a similar, ahem, “gap” in his career and relationship résumé, so a plan was hatched to move to Australia.
