Is it possible to start your life over? If you ask me, yes. Because I’ve just moved somewhere where potato chips come in flavours like Ludlow Sausage with Wholegrain Mustard or Cheshire Cheese and Chutney or Worcester Sauce. I swear I saw a three-pack with Builder’s Breakfast, Onion Bhaji and Chili & Chocolate.
         Three weeks ago I moved to England, London to be precise. Where yogurt is runnier and rhubarb flavoured, dates are abbreviated day first rather than month first, incoming calls are free on “mobile” phones but 1-800 numbers cost a fortune, banks charge few fees but broadband time is contractually limited, more men wear pinstripes, cling wrap is sold perforated, detergent comes in globby capsules, office paper is long and thin, and a chick, my dear pal S informs me, is something “no self-respecting feminist would ever call herself.” Oops!

The thing is, is it wise to start one’s life over? At this point, personally, I’m a hard won hodgepodge of corrected errors. We learn all these brutal lessons as we go along. It’s probably a big mistake to relinquish one’s mistakes. So no, I’m not starting over completely.

But I have to say a huge change like this is insanely invigorating. I’m on an organization high. “Just wait till until you get to London,” my lovely friend K kept saying. “You’ll be so busy setting yourself up you won’t have time to fret about anything.” It’s been infrastructural madness, let me tell you. A fulfilling whirlwind.

New bank, new bank card, new internet banking password. New phone provider, new phone number, new voice mail (press 2 to save and 3 to delete, messages left recent first). New modem and server. New social insurance number and tax laws. New doctor and health card. New bike (folding). New rules of the road and traffic lights (stay well back from the perpendicular curb because there isn’t always a light on the far side of the intersection. On the upside, red goes amber before going green.) New flavour of tea (blackcurrant instead acai berry but I’m looking). New breakfast habits (no Red River cereal, oats will have to do). New dentist (kidding). New public transport payment plan (I got my first Oyster Card which needs to be “topped up” on-line, that’s once I’ve used up my credits by swiping somewhere as yet mysterious every time I board a bus, tube or train).

Everything needs to be topped up around here, within a month to get your top-up rewards. But no, it’s not insanely expensive. Okay, I’ve ditched the whole organic toiletries thing, and I think I’m going to get my hair cut at a barber. No gym or TV for now and since the launderette costs 3 quid a load I’m way more hesitant to relegate outerwear to the laundry bag. But my grocery bill costs less than PEI if I hit the, get this, greengrocer. Or the street market. And Primark is even cheaper than Joe Fresh. The pound was $1.78 CAN last time I checked. The secondary big news is that I’ve got myself a cute flat near friends, tubes and Camden Market. I will now, drumroll please, calculate my burn rate … inclusive, my new bachelor  apartment aka ”studio flat” + mobile phone + mobile broadband + council tax on rent!!!! + electricity + contents insurance is going to set me back 620 pounds a month.

Time to stop converting to dollars. Earning pounds sterling will help with that. That day has not yet come. But they have teaching agencies here, and I’m feeling ridiculously flexible. Mostly, I’m hoping to combine my volunteering urges with my income. Something’s gotta give.

There’s nothing wrong with jacking-up one’s self-improvement factor at a time like this. I love resolution season as a rule; moving far away is a resolution festival. I decided that I would arrive in London rife with helpful impulses. From now on I’m a Grade A good egg, I’ve promised myself that. Friends and new friends are going to be so endearingly grateful for my utter trustworthiness. All goodwill, all of the time – that’s the new Louisa McCormack. I’m also going to drink more (I have a drinking problem in that I drink far too little).

I’m happy here. I’ve come to a place where people use the word fortnight. I drove past the corner of Quilp and Trundle the other day. Trains run early in London and the conductors announce friendly reminders: “Have a look round to make sure you’ve got all your belongings.” Thrillingly, British people read, read, read. And many, many of them are exceedingly well shod.
         I live on the Picadilly Line. To get home I simply head for … Cockfosters.

Did I mention I have a bunk bed? Does anyone want to call Guiness and find out if I am the oldest living (unincarcerated) person with a bunk bed? A single bunk bed, and thank God for that, because I’m not so much renting square footage as a square foot. Okay, I weakened. 620 pounds is $1100. Stiff rent for a teensy place but Vancouverites know all about it and that’s inclusive. 
         I felt awful leaving my mother and father behind at their ages of 74 and 79. Most people my age rejoin their parents at a time like this. “You’ve got to live your life, dear,” my dad assured me. Bless him for that. “I want you to take a good crack at London,” Dad added. This time, I spare no resources. This time, I’m a master opportunist. This time I’m the height of constructive.

How’s this for a new post code? N7 6ES or as I prefer, N Lucky 7, sexy yes.

Bring on London. I promise to share.

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