"I'm moving city, and it means breaking up with a long list of people."

“It’s not you, it’s me,” I’ll say.

“I know, I know. It’s a cliché, but really – you’ve done nothing wrong. And I didn’t want you to spend the rest of your life wondering why you never heard from me again.”

I’ll smile sadly, blow them a kiss, and walk away into the sunset.

That’s probably the moment they’ll look to the person at the cash register, and ask, “Who the hell was that?”

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I’m moving city this week.

And along with the usual flotsam and jetsam of interstate moves – boxes, removalists, painstakingly sorting through piles of old birthday cards and clothing receipts – I’ve realised there’s another big task on my list: saying goodbye.

I don’t mean my friends. They all get bundled together in one boozy, teary farewell on Friday.

I’m talking about the hordes of other characters in my day-to-day life that suddenly, I won’t see anymore.

Oh, you angels: from my barista to my bikini waxer, these are the true unsung heroes that keep Maggie Kelly afloat.

The hard-working folks who have looked past my terrible phone demeanor and inability to carry cash (ever) to work tirelessly in keeping me caffeinated, hair-free, and functioning.

I've put together a rough sort of list:

• My city barista.
• My neighborhood barista.
• My city barista's lovely mother who makes me toast every morning.
• My bikini waxer.
• My hairdresser.
• My hairdresser's receptionist who always gives me free samples.
• The lady in the boutique up the road.
• My GP.
• My GP's receptionist who calls me Mandy despite my file literally sitting right in front of her.
• My yoga teachers.
• My yoga buddy who has never said anything to me but saves my spot on Thursday mornings.
• My dentist.
• My nail salon ladies.
• The bartenders from the place near me who still let me go there even though I've left without paying the bill (twice).

CIAO FOR NOW, COMRADES.

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Is it not possible that these people who I have seen once or twice a week (ahem, the barista, not the waxer) would not one day stop, scratch their heads, and wonder where I went?

I have nightmarish flashes of my dear friends sobbing into their pillow, wailing, "Where did I go wrong? Did I burn her coffee? Did I cut her hair too short? Should I have corrected her wonky downward dog?"

Sleep easy, my friends. It's not you, it's me.

ಥ_ಥ

Now that it is decided that this ragtag army of industry experts deserve a proper farewell, I'm at a bit of a loss of what to do.

Broken heart? Here's how to get over it in 5 simple steps. (Post continues after video)

"I'm leaving," I'll say dramatically.

"Not until you pay," they'll reply.

Maybe I print out cards. A small piece of paper that reads: "Thank you. You'll never see me again. But I'll never forget your ham and cheese croissants."

Or maybe I just GO LARGE and invest in some skywriting.

"Maggie Kelly has left the building. Keep on being you, babes."

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The worst part about this multiple-vehicle-pileup is the thought of replacing them all in my new city.

It's taken months to pluck up the courage to tell my barista that I'm not actually coeliac, I just prefer the texture of gluten-free bread. And even longer again for me to be able to look my bikini waxer in the eye without developing a stress rash.

Back again I'll start, shuffling my way around the new neighborhood to find those same friendly faces that will, eventually, make up the fabric of my life.

We might not know each other's name (MAGGIE, not MANDY), or have a relationship that extends beyond the economic fringes of monetary exchange; but goddammit, it won't be the same without you.

Be it cardboard cutouts, body doubles, hand-written haikus or personalised cakes saying 'Goodbye' in strawberry icing; the time has come to bid adieu.

I'll miss you, all of you, and no thanks... I don't need a receipt.