Passengers

Our lad has started attending a youth club in High Wycombe on Wednesday evenings. It’s a bit of a trek — a 27 mile round trip, half an hour each way — but we needed to do something to stave off mischief, and promote some diversity in his friendship groups. He seems to enjoy it — a more engaging kickabout than he gets from his dad. As for me: I get to do the weekly shop in peace.

Reflecting on opportunities in Wycombe, I begin wondering why we didn’t give it any thought when we were moving out of London. I honestly don’t recall even being aware of the town in those days; it was just the location of a long steep road on the way to somewhere else.

Since then, I’ve worked there, attended a lot of appointments at the local hospital, joined courses and generally made a nuisance of myself. It could have been a prime location for a family home, so close to the M40, a halfway point between London and Oxford. Our entire social sphere could have been different.

But of course we love the little market town we made our home. Had we not settled here, we would have missed out on so many significant relationships. Our arrival here was all down to some crazy driving on my part, en route to an appointment to view a house in Aylesbury.

It’s funny the decisions we make in life. Half the time, they seem to be completely out of our control. Well they are. We’re just passengers, being carried towards our destination. My beloved says that too… she never planned to stay in this country, and she certainly never planned to marry an Englishman… but here we are. Passengers on the journey home.

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