The Couple Who Swore They'd Never Move To The Country

If Helen arrives in Somerset to find me on the sofa sipping cocoa with Michaela Strachan, I shall tell her it was all the decorators’ fault. When I brought them their coffee this morning they pointed out to me the house martins swooping to and from a nest by the window. They also told me they’d spotted rabbits in the garden. I thought this was a wonderful idea, until I reflected on how few of my vegetables appear to have grown and wondered whether the ruminant rodents might be responsible. “You’ll want to keep a gun with you,” observed the decorator sagely. The dirty dentists had told us, when we came for our first viewing, about the various animal visitors to the house. Knowing what I know now, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were talking about dung beetles, but their list was confined to pheasants, badgers and slow worms. I was rather excited about the slow worms, but I failed to gather critical intelligence about whereabouts and at what time one might meet these unusual creatures.

If you’re into Signs From The Universe, you’ll be interested in my post-lockdown visit to Wagamama, with the intention of ordering the only dish I have ever ordered in Wagamama (Yasai Itame, if you care about such things). Shock: it’s no longer on the menu. Must be time to leave the city. On which subject… In a remarkable “compare and contrast” moment, following the misery of having our London flat on the market for 10 months with zero offers, last Thursday we put the flat on the lettings market – and the first tenants to view it decided to rent. The whole process, including taking photos and measuring, had taken less than two days. Our lessees are three young women who work for charities, which it stands to reason must make them good tenants. They will be moving in on July 9 th , which will therefore the day we stop being Londoners and start talking in West Country accents. Before that, of course, we have to start being Landlords, a new experience for both of us. In a moment of weakn

Apologies to those who like their transitions short and efficient, but I’ve been delving back into my favourite philosophical topic of this “between time” when we live neither in London nor Somerset: what it is that makes the country life so appealing, especially to us when for years it was the last thing we wanted? We spent 20 odd years of our London lives (following spells in Ealing, Leytonstone and Ilford) living in and around Twickenham. Before you all start writing in, you’re right, many people wouldn’t call it London; but since Middlesex was officially abolished and Greater London became a thing, London it is - it even has planes coming into land overhead. And also, Twickenham is actually grimly urban. It has its iconic bits - the rugby ground, and the Thames of course, featuring Eel Pie Island, crucible of the early 60s British Blues scene; and at a push Alexander Pope’s house. But the centre of Twickenham was decimated (don’t write in, I know that’s not what it means, but I’ve

Matters arising 1 : there was much excitement in the vegetable patch a couple of days ago when some of my seeds actually sprouted. Yes, the radishes are pushing up through the earth and soon I will able to undertake the gardener’s ritual of “thinning out”, when you decide which are the weakest individuals and euthanise them. All those people exhibiting giant marrows at village fetes are probably closet eugenicists.  This bodes well for the most recent vegetable crop, as radishes are usually first out of the blocks; but things look bad for the crop I planted at the beginning of April. Looks like I will never be able to enjoy the experience of eating wasabi rocket. Matters arising 2: We’ve had to bite the bullet and get outside help for the most egregious legacies of the dirty dentists. The flagstone floor of the kitchen, and the oven of the non-Aga cooker, are archeological digs in dirt form, and require some kind of heavy machinery to shift. Meanwhile the decorators are in full fligh