I left England four years ago today. Like most things in my life, my memories of the months immediately before and after I moved to Copenhagen feel like fragments of a bigger picture I can’t yet make out.
I remember resigning from my reporter’s job. A bland meeting room in an inconsequential building in an industrial estate at the arse-end of town where I went through the motions with the deputy editor, an officious jobsworth only a year or two older than me. She accepted my resignation with dead eyes and we went back to preparing that week’s edition.
I had wanted it to feel like a withering condemnation of the publisher and its inconsiderate treatment of editorial staff. Ultimately it was irrelevant. But it was a beginning of sorts, at a time when I was more accustomed to endings. I was 27.
Now I am 31. I am an advertising copywriter and I have recently bought my first apartment with my girlfriend. But the story of these past four years is less to do with achievements and acquisitions than with the sensory awakening that’s come from simply being here. Copenhagen has given me purpose. There are still unkind days, but they are fewer, and beginnings outnumber endings.
The pictures that follow are a kind of photo-essay to try and give an impression of my life here. Friends, strangers, girlfriends, places, streets and buildings. Thanks for sticking with me!
