DEPENDING on what time of day it is if/as you read this, I’ll either be heading to completely the wrong departure gate at one airport, seeing if I can keep up my fairly impressive record of getting nabbed for the is-this-your-bag-sir treatment (one of these days, I will answer “No, a complete stranger asked me to carry their bag through customs for them” and see what happens), or somewhere quite high in between.

My final column at The Press coincides with the day I leave these isles to start a new journalism job in Qatar. Before anyone starts, I probably haven’t even got there yet so I’ve no idea whether I can sort you out with 2022 World Cup tickets; it’s eight years off, anyway, so you’re not exactly pushed for time.

Packing my stuff up for the move wasn’t mentally draining enough, so I worked out the other day how many people I’ve worked with in the editorial department during my six-and-a-half years at Walmgate Plaza. It came to 68, I think, although in terms of longevity and the speed with which he talks, walks and types, chief reporter Mike Laycock really should count as two journalists, while news editor and beer writer Gavin ‘Four Twitter Accounts’ Aitchison is essentially more than one person, but not officially, as it causes payroll problems.

Anyway, after the Lendal Bridge saga reached its nail-biting denouement last week – the makers of True Detective are due to start turning it into a mini-series as soon as Matthew McConaughey gets back from his usual two weeks in Nuneaton – I didn’t really feel anything could top it for sheer entertainment value, so I’ve decided to have a go at writing stuff elsewhere. I doubt anybody will be closing bridges to help Doha’s public transport system, primarily because Doha doesn’t have a public transport system. Or any cyclists. This is going to be a culture shock and then some.

As a York native who, pre-2007, never thought he’d be a journalist in his hometown but is very glad he has been – I can’t speak for the rest of you, though – the past few days have got me thinking about some of the things I’ll miss about this city. It’s not an exhaustive list by any stretch, but it includes:

• Bootham Crescent. It’s 28 years and 20 days (this counting lark’s a doddle) since my first York City match – Walsall at home, won 1-0, Keith Walwyn got the winner. Until I get West Bay Lagoon Reds up and running, I’ll have to rely on the interweb at times as I don’t think Al Jazeera screen all York’s matches. But I’ve booked my flight back for the League Two play-off final next month and the tickets are non-refundable, so City had better not mess this up.

• York’s pubs. I don’t even drink – alcohol, I mean – and I love ‘em. You can go from one which is playing folk music to one which is playing Inspiral Carpets without having to walk too far and everything. And they can also be really useful for social research. For example, judging by what you see most weekends, the wedding industry in the north-east and on Merseyside must be absolutely flying.

• The chance to properly check out the new stores at Monks Cross. I wrote loads of stories about them during the protracted planning process and then they open just as I move 3,500 miles away. John Lewis may eventually look at setting up a Souq Waqif branch, I suppose, although for all I know there could be great crested newts all over the place and that will cause no end of hassle.

• That moment around this time of year when you get a sunny day, it’s early evening, you’re walking down Duncombe Place towards the Minster, or along Stonegate, or you’re looking across Monk Stray or some similar patch of wide open space, and you just think “You know what? It’s nice, this place”.

• The funniest and finest bunch of people I’ll probably ever work with. If anywhere I go from here gives me half as many good times as I’ve had at The Press, I’ll have been very lucky.

Thanks, York. See you later sometime.