And how I wanted to move back.





Around the time that May made her “citizen of nowhere” speech, I started to grudgingly accept that I must rather like living in Hong Kong – after all, I’d been there for two years. It was probably something to do with the lifestyle, which was hard not to love. Champagne brunches in the winter; all-you-can-drink junk boat outings in the summer. Life was just easier: the subway always ran on time and you never woke up to a cold floor in the mornings, even in winter. I made true friends that put up with my constant existential whining about Hong Kong (if you’re reading: I’ll always be truly grateful).





Plus, there were the opportunities. Expat life was like being back at university (when was the last time you heard a journalist compare Nottingham with Hong Kong?) but with a lot more cash. The people you met for drinks could introduce you to their entire network, and I met an average of six new people a week (in my six years in London, I think I met six new people in total). Somebody you knew was always doing something entrepreneurial – thanks to the city being one of the most open places to do business in. Everybody knew everybody, which was comforting, until it started to feel suffocating. I couldn’t escape my job, even though I adored it.





Eventually I came to realise that champagne brunches and low tax rates and the indifference I had for Hong Kong weren’t the things I wanted from my life; or at least not one full enough for me to accept. The fact I lived 12 flying hours away from family and my closest friends, who were getting married and sprogging with alarming briskness, weighed on me heavily. I had planned my own wedding long-distance and it felt like it was happening to somebody else during much of our 18-month engagement.



