On 25th April, 1992, my husband died of a cerebral tumour. My three children had all left home: my daughter was busy as a young doctor; my eldest son was married, and was also busy as a training NHS doctor; the youngest was at university in London.

Whilst I busied myself with my work in sexual health, caring for newly diagnosed HIV patients – watching them slowly die, as there was no treatment available then – I soon felt the need to do more with my life.

An advertisement in the British Medical Journal for a sexual health physician, to run the clinic in Wellington, New Zealand, seemed to be calling me to escape. An interview over the telephone, and then a formal interview in Wellington, and the job was mine if I wanted it. Was I foolish to go? I really don’t know, but on 4th January, 1995 I flew to the other end of the world – and to my new life.

So much happened in the five years I was there. There were only six sexual health physicians for both the North and South Islands, which meant I became the government spokesperson on the subject, and attended regular meetings at the Beehive – the beautiful New Zealand Parliament building – to update Health Minister Bill English on figures, and give my ideas for health policy. Sometimes I went to meet Prime Minister Jenny Shipley, for her cocktail evenings, and was even introduced to Madeleine Allbright, when she was USA Secretary of State. Heady stuff for a lass from Yorkshire. Of course it was hard work, lecturing to medical students and Maori health workers, and touring the country, to organise teaching courses for GPs who were the mainstay of the service. But there were perks, as well as hard work. We presented our work all over the world – Australia, Switzerland, Germany – and met famous figures in the field, all the while travelling in business class, and staying in five star hotels.

So why did I leave? I had come back home once, for my daughter’s wedding, but had already missed the birth of two grandchildren – and a third was on the way. So reluctantly I left New Zealand, and after a six month stint treating Aboriginal Australians in Alice Springs, I returned to Leeds. Then, for my final five years of a working life, I moved to Watford and worked with HIV patients from Zimbabwe. Things were much more hopeful for them, this time around. And now? I’m content for a reassuring pat on the head, from my children and my eight grandchildren, when Sunday comes around!