Everyone I know has b*ggered off

Places to live that look a bit like wangs No.22 - Florida and the Mull of Kintyre

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We're off to a party at some friends' house on Saturday night. They called a few days ago to tell us they're moving to France.
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It's a good move for them. Their daughter is six and they'll be able to send her to a school where she will learn boring things like reading 'n stuff. Admittedly, this means she won't complete her South London education in binge drinking, knife fighting or drug abuse and won't be able to compete with her classmates to see who can get pregnant first, but this is a sacrifice her parents are willing to make. They can sell their small London house for a rather fetching profit and pick up a four storey, five bedroom house in the town they're moving to for slightly less. They probably wouldn’t even need a mortgage. Their health service will work. Their trains will work. Saturday nights in the local town centre will not consist solely of people getting blind drunk, vomiting then hitting each other. They might be able to eat out decently for less than £50 a head. Many of the people they will encounter in their daily life will speak the same language as they do.
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In fact, the only reason I could come up with for them staying in London was that I would be a little bit lonelier. Which isn’t much of a reason really. They're worried that they might miss London and want to come back at some point. I laughed at the very suggestion. I've known dozens of people who've moved out. None of them has ever had the slightest inclination to return, wherever they ended up in the World.
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With their passing, the Exodus of friends I had in London is pretty much complete. Sure, I still know loads of people but they all date back to when I was a kid. With the one sole exception (yes, you Ian) everyone I know who moved into London has moved out again. I can’t blame them. If my parents weren't so stubborn about not moving themselves, I wouldn’t be here either.
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Coincidentally, a chum who moved out a few years ago called me yesterday with a job offer. It sounded like something I could do and would enjoy doing. Plus it would be somewhere warm where fags are cheap. The job would involve shipping out to the Middle East for a few months and leaving Tracy on her own back in London for a bit. I don't like the idea of doing that and it could well prove to be the deal breaker. Besides, I have the first great novel of the 21st century to write.
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Maybe I'll restart that particular project tomorrow …
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