Town vs. country is an age old debate and one I still don't have a clear answer on. When asked if I miss living in London I tend to say yes as I had a wonderful time there. But would I move back? Probably not. Apart from anything else I'm not sure I could afford to any more. I am lucky in that my Sister's still there so I get to visit the metropolis at least. And now that my kids are growing up we are making day trips to see all the important sites. Life must include a visit to London's museums, galleries and some of the infamous sights and settings. And not forgetting that all important trip to Forbidden Planet. Other comic shops are of course available but FP is like coming home to me. I still reminisce about the days when it was a seedy little place on Denmark Street with more akin to a Soho dirty mag emporium than a comic shop.
Shopping is a big drawback when it comes country living. Our nearest town has very little to offer retail-wise which I find disappointing and frustrating around Christmas time. I know in this modern age I should forget the High Street and look to the internet for my purchases but I would still much prefer to spend an hour or so in a large shop touching the merchandise. But then I'm a tactile sort of guy - just ask my cat. London used to offer me shops with three or four floors of books or rack upon rack of DVDs. Along with with hundreds of small independent shops for the more obscure acquisition.
But then the country does appear to have a much calmer pace to it. Not that I really need it. MW says if I were any more laid back I'd be standing on my head! But this country living does get to you, even if I can't experience it as much as I'd like. I'd love to spend an afternoon sleeping in a deckchair to the soporific sound of cricket on the green or sitting outside a pub watching the bees and mayflies doing their bug-ballet-boogie! Unfortunately I spend most of my weekends shipping the kids from one place to another - music, dance, scouts, parties - their list of extra curricular activities goes on and on. I don't begrudge them the opportunity but it does eat into my 'do nothing' time.
Which leads me to my other bugbear about these green and pleasant parts; transport. When I worked in London I'd use train, bus, tube and even feet to get from place to place. I knew the shortest of short cuts around the West End and would gladly sit for hours commuting on the Central Line each morning. I could get through three novels a week and still find time to write myself. I could also simultaneously ignore every other soul on the train (including the loony with duffel-coat and can of White Lighting, singing the Beatles).
In comparison in the country I have to drive everywhere, which means keeping the car going because if that stops working you're stuffed! There will be a hopper bus going where you want but it'll take half a day to get there. And you could possibly walk but only if you want to risk being run over while traipsing down some country lane. Bikes are great for a day out around a lake or park but again a death-trap with spokes in the getting to work stakes. I don't mind driving but I have no passion or pride for my car. I haven't washed it in about six months and I'm slowly running it into the ground just travelling the fifteen miles to and from work each day. And worst of all I'm on my own - which is in no way the same as being with while at the same time ignoring a crowd of people. True, I can supply the Beatles-belting myself but even out here the drinking while driving bit is frowned on!
But for all my complaints it's a bumpkin's life for me. Maybe it's a case of the Devil you know or possibly it was always there, waiting to come out. MW certainly made a premonition when we came here a decade ago that I'd end up doing something country-ish. She had visions of me all in white, cross garters with a top hat, whacking my hazel on the village green! I told her to pull the other one because it didn't have bells on and so resisted the power of the Morris-side. But instead I finally fell for that other village staple; campanology. Four years in the tower and I've finally the bells to roughly strike Plain Bob Minor!
The chimes of London told Dick Whittington to turn again, but now I laugh at such temptation and answer back in their own tongue,
"You can keep your gold-paved streets! I'm off to the village fete for a slice of cake and an out-sized vegetable!"
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