The life expectancy of the average UK male is 74. Hearing about government plans to hike state pensionable age, I realized that not much time might be left to enjoy the life of a pensioner. That’s why, last August, I decided to retire at the age of 33. I gave up my job as a journalist, rented out my London flat and moved to the south-west of France with my girlfriend, who heartily agreed with my plan. It was fear and a tinge of weariness that gave me the impulse to do it. ① I worried that I was wasting the best years of my life blinking at a computer screen and that when I did eventually pack up work, I would have hours to kill but no energy or strength to make use of them. The solution seemed obvious, if a little risky: retire now and work later.

Many will think me foolhardy, as did some of my friends, not to mention bosses. But I want to enjoy life in my prime. I have worked hard. I started as a journalist at 17. Early shifts, night shifts, weekends, bank holidays and Christmases: check. And what was it all for? ② I got halfway up the ladder and realized I was afraid of heights – or to be precise, of professional responsibility and the attendant drudgery.

Some doubts I had obviously harboured were allayed when it transpired that with the income from my London flat, a modest, stress-free life in France was a realistic possibility. Modest being the operative word. ③ In return, here we are in France, having spent the winter reading books by the wood burner. A hectic life and economic blues have been swapped for country walks and fireside chats. Stress has been reduced to wondering which route to take or whether the fire will crackle into life.

There are risks, of course. I’m not as fortunate as some of my colleagues who can take on a contract whenever they fancy, so work is not guaranteed when I decide to return to London. And another question mark is about successful repatriation. ④ If a job is found, how to overcome the daily grind of self-doubt, to tolerate the early-morning starts and office politics once more? Still, it’ll surely be worth it for the sweltering Monday afternoons when I can sit by the pool with a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice in hand, listening to the birds singing and the rustle of leaves. Normally, I would be slumped at a desk most of the day, filling in papers, listening to the hack and whirl of the coffee machine. Now honestly, which would you prefer?

adapted from www.independent.co.uk