Starting Over: Surviving a Breakup as a Single Expat in London

Being a single forty-something expat in London is a wild ride. It’s a delicate balance of loneliness and independence, adventure and exhaustion, knowing exactly what you want and still making all the wrong choices. And sometimes, those wrong choices come with immediate consequences.

The morning-after pill: a rollercoaster of emotions and expenses

I rushed to the pharmacy for the morning-after pill. The pharmacist handed it to me for free. Just hours earlier, mid-meltdown, I’d spent £37.50 on the same thing. All because my casual date somehow managed to misplace a condom where no condom should be lost, reaching orgasm twice without me even noticing. Champion move.

The cherry on top was the notification from the Flo app: “Best chance to conceive: Today and 5 more days!”.

Aside from the fact that period-tracking apps are the greatest invention ever, a few months ago I had deliberately activated this feature because in a last-ditch attempt to save a sinking relationship, I convinced myself that having a baby might do the trick. Because nothing says healthy love like a panic-fuelled reproductive decision. Again, national champion.

Surviving a long-term breakup: the emotional aftermath 

Breaking up after eight years—six of which were spent living together—feels like grief, even if you’re the one who ended it. A grief mixed with guilt, which, given I’m from the city of the Vatican, I was pretty much born into. And wondering if I’ve just made the biggest mistake of my life? Not exactly easy for a self-sabotaging mess like me.

My ex-toy-boy, now my irreplaceable pen pal, says I should give it time. My best friend says I should give it time and keep my legs shut for a bit. My lovers beg to differ.

Anyway, cellulite, BMI, and gravity doing their thing aside, I still seem to have some power in the basic world of male desire. I’m like a modern, more awkward Bridget Jones, a repressed lesbian trying to convince the chubby girl inside me that I turned out attractive. I’m a feminist, but I also fish for compliments at an Olympic level.

Life in London: surviving a breakup and trying to make it work

So, here I am. Forty, single, in London—one of the most expensive cities in the world. A dog to feed, a new job, and a flat hunt. The kind of chaos that feels like a midlife coming-of-age story.

I also collect teaspoons. An odd hobby, maybe, but one that comes with its own set of quirks. My mother—a God-fearing woman—once stole one from a hotel in San Siro for me. A terrible influence, but hey, at least I don’t use them to shoot up heroin. Small victories, right?

Life in this city is a constant puzzle of logistics, ambition, and an underlying desire to escape to a beach somewhere. The question remains: Will I manage to find a hole to live in, get my citizenship, and eventually move somewhere the sun actually shines? Or will I just keep collecting teaspoons and making questionable dating choices until the end of time?

We’ll see. In the meantime, I also find myself wondering: what kind of man, past puberty, comes twice within ten minutes?