I stood in Leeds City Station, suitcase at my side, waiting for the train to Heathrow. A dead-end job, exorbitant living costs and two broken hearts had led me here.

Six weeks earlier an appointment at the Australian Embassy and a chat with a helpful Sydney-sider had been the only platforms I needed. A name, a phone number and an airline ticket should lift me out of the darkness; sunshine and lightness might again be mine. However, certain phrases could still make me smile, conveying the absurdity of the situation. Like a friend's response when you say they'll have to wait a while for the fifty pence you owe them. 'It's Okay. I know you won 't leave the country.’

I had few belongings: most of my possessions remained in the house my ‘ex’ still occupied. He'd cried and said he would pick up the mortgage. ‘When its sold I'll make sure you get half.’ Whatever. Did he really think I'd check?

My clothes were with my best friend. ‘I’ll send on what you need soon.’ Yeah. Sure. After wearing them, no doubt.

My golf clubs were in my mother’s hall. ‘We'll post them on once you tell me your address’ (Though God knows how, or why).

Perhaps the mis-placed confidence or carelessness of youth had prevented me from enquiring about future jobs. A vibrant country .... A major city ..... With my passport safely secured I had no plan, only measured optimism.

My Australian contact, a woman — merely a voice on the phone - said she would find me at the airport.

I'd said ‘I'Il be in a leather jacket and blue jeans.’ Who wasn't in 1976?

I'd hoped to reassure my parents but, as the morning sky darkened, my father turned away: the drizzle hid his tears and mine.

Once raindrops fell in earnest I gasped at my mother's recurrent reminder, 'But you've no umbrella, love’

‘Don’t worry,’ I replied, ‘I'm not going halfway round the world.’

Although, in fact, that was exactly what I was doing.