Ten thousand days ago today I arrived in France. Not for the first time but the last. Since then all my journeys have started and finished here.
On July 1 1998 I drove from our house in Peckham to Pompignan with a car full of stuff and a dog to begin a new life.
It was the beginning of a new life, one which, at the time, I fully intended to continue – I never intended to return to England; others told me – us – how brave we were, how they could never do such a thing, how – well, etc., etc., etc. To me it seemed to be a very natural thing and I’ve never, ever thought seriously of moving back to England once during those 10 000 days.
1998 was two wives and two children ago, some of whom I love and don’t regret more than others; which is which is fairly obvious. Now, I have two great daughters who make me proud enough to burst; I get to live on the beach in the South of France; and I have a job which, despite it being funny to moan about, I find interesting and fulfilling. And I’m 50 000 words into my novel.
What will the next 10 000 days bring? Probably the end of me but also, with the luck that’s followed me over the past 27+ years, lots of fun too. I have put the bad days behind me and I now know how to easily avoid them. My health, whilst not as robust as it should be, is better than it has been at any time in the past getting-on-for three decades. In particular my mental health is way, way better than at any point in my now nearly 65 years.
Next week we’re going to Paris to celebrate my 65th birthday – do come if you can, 19:30 on Saturday 25th Chez Paul. I’ll be the one drinking the Burgundy and eating the duck.
Here’s to the next few thousand days. Cheers.
** This post has been corrected, replacing an earlier version which falsely claimed that I arrived in France 17000 days ago. In fact, I arrived in France 10000 days ago. I, my Editorial Board, my Board of Governors and all my mentors sincerely regret the error. Also it’ll be 10 000 days on November 15, not yesterday. We regret this error, too, and blame my 5th form maths teacher, Isky ‘Rat’ Kerr, who was a complete asshole who not only hated me but used to beat me with an old gym shoe. True story. It’s his fault I can’t count.
Most Excellent! 
It’ll be 8,000 days since I moved back to Scotland come next Friday, and, like you, I’d not go back to England.I remember Iain Kerr very well. In the first year, we had Geography with Duncan Howe first thing on Monday mornings, followed immediately by Modern Maths with Mr Kerr all the way across the school, which made making the start of lessons challenging to begin with. One morning, Dunkie* had us out at the traffic lights doing some traffic survey and we were late back to his classroom, and consequently even later to Ian Kerr’s classroom. He was heedless of our legitimate excuses for lateness, and we were all lined up for a caning before beginning the lesson. Egregious injustice.But there is one instance which I recall which changed my view of the man. One morning in assembly a boy fainted in the front row. Kerr was down off the stage in an instant, took the boy up in his arms and carried him out of the hall. Unflinching in discipline he may have been, he was the first to respond to need.Incidentally, I found his maths teaching good enough for me to get an A at O Level, but practising old papers throughout the fifth year may well have had something to do with that.*Still owes me 50p for not knowing that there were 50 states of the USA.