Angie Abingdon

Personal takes, life lessons, and everything in between.

It started with a chat in a Swindon nightclub and ended — decades later — with six suitcases and a one-way flight. This is the story behind the move, the emotional pull of family, and the quiet chaos of leaving everything behind.

In 1991, I got chatted up by an interesting fellow with a slight Australian twang. In a nightclub. In Swindon. He’d just returned to the UK…

Fast track 33 years later —  Married to David, two children, each armed with Aussie passports (thanks to their dad), had made the move to Australia. Our eldest, George, went first in 2017. His sister, Becca, followed in 2023.

It must be a mother thing, but it hurt.
The realisation of the distance between us.
The time zones. Not really feeling part of their lives any more.
I’m not afraid to admit that some days, when I woke up, I’d sob.

But then… there were my dear friends in the UK. Some of whom I’d known for over 30 years. There was the familiar — the routines, the people, the comfort of it all.

And yet, the pull of family — of my children building their lives on the other side of the world — became stronger than the ties that kept me in place.

So, in 2024, I left everything I knew behind and moved with David, to Australia.

Sounds so straightforward and easy, doesn’t it? Like just pack up and go.
Those who’ve done it will know how much exhausting preparation and organisation is involved to pull this off.

Over the years, we’d accumulated an enormous amount of stuff. Stuff.
Once you start looking at it, it just becomes overwhelming.
What should we take with us? What should we sell? What should we donate?

The added headache of all this was that both kids had also left a lot of their stuff, which had been kept in storage for up to 7 years. (This included about seven boxes of Lego.)

Honestly, the process of reducing this down to a manageable and affordable cubic volume for a container took weeks. But only so many weeks were available, as we had already booked our flights to Brisbane.

Towards the end of the process, we were literally putting things out on the pavement and watching passers-by helping themselves and making joyful noises at a towel rail, or a muffin tin, or a house plant. To say that it was cathartic would be an understatement.

In the last few days, we were holding up random bits of plastic, an odd hairbrush or a set of coasters and saying, “Do we need these?”

Then there were the goodbyes. So painful.
We met with many friends in a local pub — many of whom made long journeys to attend. I said goodbye to my sister in Wales and to a very dear 84-year-old friend, Wendy, around the corner (who I visited to say my farewells just before the minibus to take us to the airport was due to arrive).

After an exhausting few weeks, we left the house and loaded the six suitcases into the minibus.

Just six suitcases containing what we felt we would need on arrival. We had no property organised at the other end. Just a few nights in a hotel. Quite brave, really!

I’m Angie Abingdon — English by birth, Aussie by life choice.

I write about things that matter to me: family, big moves, small moments, uncomfortable truths, and whatever else bubbles up.

Sometimes reflective, sometimes ranty. Always real.

This site is my corner of the internet to share personal stories, insights, and bits of life that don’t fit neatly into social media boxes.

I now live on the Gold Coast, Australia, after decades in the UK — and yes, that move was emotional. I blog here and on Medium about noticing things — the quiet contrasts, the odd habits, the unexpected beauty. Making mental notes, sometimes sharing them. Always trying to make sense of what this new life means.