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

  When it comes to having tradespeople in your home, I’ve been lulled into a false sense of security by our decorators, whose most challenging question is “what colour would you like the walls?”. So I was unprepared for the bathroom fitters, who started sucking through their teeth within five minutes of their arrival. “There are pipes under the bathroom floor.” “Right… Were you not expecting—” “What do you want us to do with the pipes?” “Erm, I”m not really a pipe expert…” “We could run them along the skirting.” “OK, fine.” “But that’s problematic.” “I see.” “We could put them inside a stud wall.” “Is that what you’d recommend?” “The problem is, you see, the pipes are 20mm.” “Are they?” “We could drop them into the kitchen roofspace.” “OK, do that then.” “That would be a lot of extra work.” “OK, don’t do that.” And so it goes on. When we get to the bit where they tell me the shower might not fit above my head, I have to go and have a lie down. What a good job we only had the bathroom p

  It’s now three weeks to go till our chattels arrive in Somerset and we become proper residents. Of all the things that might be occupying our minds connected with a house move, the most dominant is the fact that we are supposed to be bringing our new puppy home when she reaches 8 weeks old. Which, by my calculations, is the day after we move. I know there’s no point expressing any anxiety about this to Helen, whose answer will be the standard “but just imagine her little face”. I don’t actually need to imagine her little face. I have seen her little face just last weekend, along with the little faces of her four week old sisters and brother. We have to look at all their little faces, for we won’t know which is ours for a few weeks. How many weeks we’re not clear about. Our breeder Sue is – what’s the word? – “mercurial”. She was very definite that puppy selection would happen at six weeks. Then last weekend she told us very definitely that she tells all her clients they can’t choose

  I knew that somewhere along the line there would be an event which underlined the enormity of what we were doing in abandoning our London life for its rural counterpart. For me that moment came last Wednesday, when I received an email from Fulham Football Club inviting me to renew my season ticket for the coming season. I turned away from the screen choking back a sob.  Apologies to non football enthusiasts already having to deal with the imminent Euros, but please feel my pain with me. No longer will I get to enjoy the walk to Craven Cottage with an old friend along the Thames through Bishop’s Park,  to sing along to the Clash’s “London Calling” over the ground’s PA (“I LIVE BY THE RIVERRR!!!”), to see Billy The Badger waving to the crowd before kick off, to endure the grinding monotony of the players’ insistence on passing every ball back to their own defence… Actually maybe it’s not all bad. I had displayed unwavering loyalty to my boyhood club Arsenal until, three years ago, I de

  Last weekend’s Sunday Times proclaimed that Somerset Is The New Cotswolds.  Exciting for those Londoners who can’t afford to live in the Cotswolds, depressing for those Londoners who moved to Somerset to avoid the kind of Londoners you get in the Cotswolds. The article didn’t mention our village, possibly because we’re a mile and a half from Taunton’s largest council estate, where even our decorator won’t walk on his own. Written presumably by an intern with no budget but with internet access, the article focused mainly on the usual suspects, Bruton and Frome. I’ve written about Bruton before. It’s pleasant enough, with pretty walks and a sourdough pizza restaurant, but it’s not clear what draws the media types there in such huge numbers. Frome has long had its enthusiasts, priding itself on a “we’re a bit different from everywhere else” kind of vibe. This didn’t deter the Sunday Times from proclaiming it The New Shoreditch, on the basis it has a market. Which puts us in the situat