Tired of London, tired of life?

The weeks that followed that first viewing of Beacon Cottage were a flurry of longing and begging for loans, anxiety over whether we would be able to sell our flat before the cottage was snapped up by someone else, and absolute bewilderment over such issues as well water provision, versus installation of mains, shared tracks for access, and septic tanks. Fortunately, Chris loved the cottage as much as I did and was just as prepared to make it happen. Prior to viewing, he had drawn a picture of his ideal house: a winding track, a small cottage nestled in an isolated position, encircled by trees, smoke puffing prettily from the chimney. We had joked that such a place would be impossible to find at a distance from which you could still commute to London, and within our budget. So when he saw it, it was with a mixture of deja vu and delight, and I had very little trouble convincing him we needed to become country bumpkins forthwith -in fact, he'd been trying to persuade me of that very thing for years.

London had gone badly wrong in terms of career, for me at any rate. That's a story that can't really be told here, and maybe can never be told, which is a shame, as it's a good one Mrs Carper! But suffice to say my dreams had turned to ashes, my heart was broken and my reputation annihilated. I couldn't go back to any of the old jobs I had before- well, never mind. Perhaps a little can leak out, here and there.

I was stifled in the flat and neighbours were always ringing on the door. Twice, even three times a day Ding-Dong! and pouf! half an hour would be gone as I chatted with Brian about the bushes at the front, or his basil plants, or his latest jam experiment. I must have heard the plot of Il Postino 50 thousand times. It was a nightmare! On top of Brian there was Brian's friend Maartie, next door but one and gay as Christmas. He'd been a pain ever since the day he'd told me how "stirring" and "moving" he'd found the sight of my husband on his blue Vespa 50 cc. Getting nowhere with him, he transferred platonic affections to myself and would leap over the two flimsy fences that divided us to come and tell me what was wrong with my outfit or what colour the living room should be. He was fond of dragging two filthy sheepskin rugs with him, one a dirty fuschia, one chocolate. He would fling them down on the hideous laminate floor in the flat and declare it "moody" or "provocative", insisting that I should instal similar articles and decorate correspondingly as soon as possible. I loved and hated him all at once.

Also, I'd moved from heady, do-anything devil-may-care mid-twenties to snuggle on the sofa mid-thirties, and London had lost its point. I didn't want to stand on the tube with sweat trickling down my back, breathing others' sweat and battling through turnstiles with shopping I could ill afford. I didn't want to see those choked, grey roads, the dull North Circular roar, the supermarkets bursting with prams used as weapons by mums on the verge of murder, and queues of grey working troops who all looked ten years older than they really were. I was tired of seeing the scene become ever younger, ever prettier, the T.L.Ws ( trendy London wankers) who talked airy nothings and took cocaine as lightly as a summer stroll - I've never liked watching a party from the sidelines. There was nothing grand or great in my life and it was time to move on. I wanted a baby. It hadn't happened for me. Like a fish, I hoped to grow bigger in deeper waters. I wasn't tired of life - I just wanted a bigger slice of it.