Today it is March 28th – a date that will be forever etched into my mind.
The reason is that it was the date, in 2012, that I zipped up my suitcase and headed off to Sydney airport for a flight to the UK … only this time, clutching a one-way ticket and lugging all my remaining possessions with me.
Perhaps lost in all the drama surrounding the impending arrival of the tempest that was St Jude’s storm, last weekend also marked that annual ritual of putting the clocks back.
Overnight, journeys home from work, previously undertaken in a sort of weak, dappled sunlight, were suddenly plunged into premature darkness with the prospect of this scenario continuing for another 5 months or so.
When I returned to the UK a little over a year ago, there had been an unseasonably warm March and as result, Spring had well and truly sprung by the time I stepped off the plane.
This year, the reverse is true with a cold March and April ensuring that nature spent a little longer tucked up in bed than normal, thus delaying the time when I get to experience my first English Springtime for many years.
Most mornings in Sydney I would be jolted from my slumber by a loud sound right outside my bedroom window.
Sounding like a cross between a baby crying, a protesting drunk being evicted from a pub at closing time and a member of the Australian cricket team appealing for yet another LBW (not the current team, obviously), it had a uniquely raucous timbre.
One of the many positives about returning to live in the UK is the easy access it offers to a wide range of different types of holiday.
In recent years, I have to say my Australian holiday experiences (or those that didn’t involve a trip home to the UK) had become somewhat limited by a diminishing passion for either long haul flights or, dare I say it, the beach.