The Desperate Diary of a Country Housewife

It has more bedrooms than we need, and more sitting rooms, and more cellars and underground vaults and cupboards and attics and cubbyholes than we’ll ever know what to do with. But the children can build camps in them. That’s the whole point. Or they can attach a rope ladder to the wall at the top of the back garden, and escape into the fields on the other side.

Not only that; it’s only a few miles—almost bicycling distance—from the train station, which means, on a more practical note, that Fin can travel up and down to his office in Soho almost as easily as if he were taking the tube from Shepherds Bush. In fact everything about the house is so perfect, so romantic and so good for the trains, it seems quite peculiar that we can even afford it. Houses in this corner of the world are far from cheap. What with one thing and another—the beautiful, protected countryside, the trains that carry people so easily back and forth to Soho and the City—this is probably one of the most expensive corners of rustic paradise in England.

Maybe the fact that you can’t get a car to the door might put a few people off. We both positively like that. It makes the place feel more secluded. In any case, with or without the access, this house could hardly be described as a cheapie and we are fully prepared to encumber ourselves with a monumental mortgage.

God knows, of all the options we’ve considered, the South West of England is hardly the most adventurous…but. But. But. But. It works. The schools are good. The house—I think I dreamed of. And in any case, whatever happens, however it turns out, we’ve been festering in London for far too long. It’s about time we had an adventure.

We put our London house up for sale within the week, and made an offer for the Dream House that afternoon. It was rejected out of hand. So we upped the bid. They didn’t even bother to respond. Two days later we saw the house advertised in the Sunday Times. So we sulked for a few days and then upped the bid again. And again.

June 2005Shepherds Bush (#ulink_865b9667-0a9f-5b32-9903-50925c7df2bf)

The horrible ‘vendors’—him with his self-important beard; her with her sour mouth and her chignon—have finally accepted our offer. Bastards. Their obstinate refusal to sell us the house for anything less than it’s actually worth has led me to develop a searing hatred for them both, and especially for the woman—whose chignon, by the way, isn’t elegant, as she thinks it is, but actually quite embarrassing. Never mind, though. In my new country persona I’ve definitely decided I’m going to try to stop being such a bitch. I’m going to focus on people’s positive sides. So.

On a more positive note, we’ve pretty much sold in Shepherds Bush. It was all very quick and easy. Slightly too quick, in fact. Unlike Beardie and the Chignon, we didn’t insist on getting the highest price. So now we’re about to exchange contracts, and we have to be out of this house by the first week of July…which leaves us homeless for about two months. Too long, really, to invite ourselves to stay with parents or friends. So we’ll have to rent somewhere. Maybe we’ll rent abroad, since the children are on holiday. Why not? I have the next novel due in before too long and I can write it wherever I like. In fact that’s one of the reasons we can move out of London. And Fin will be away filming anyway.

In any case, if all goes according to plan the Dream House will be ours some time at the end of August.

2 a.m., July 10thShepherds Bush (#ulink_dcafffd1-3b02-5804-a454-de5c0aa6b943)

Will I wind up wearing a chignon and having a mouth like an old cat’s arse? Or will it be worse than that? Will I turn fat and mousey, and never get out of my anorak? Or will I hit the bottle and never get out of bed? Will my friends keep in touch with me? Will I keep in touch with them? Will Fin get a lover in London and never come home? Will I—

I’ve been lying here worrying for hours, thinking maybe we’re making a terrible mistake, thinking maybe we’d be better off staying in London after all—and then I heard it, the old muffled smash, the panicky boot-shuffle, the ruffle-ruffle-slam: a series of sounds so familiar to Shepherds Bush night life I could probably recognise them from my sleep, integrate them seamlessly into any one of my dreams.

It is the musical sound of yet another car windscreen biting the dust. Not ours, though, on this occasion. It can’t be, unfortunately, because we still haven’t fixed ours from the week before last.

Maybe I should call the police?

Shall I call the police? Can I be bothered? It means getting out of bed, and then they probably won’t even pick up the telephone…Or if they do, they’ll get here too late to do anything about it. And I’ll have to give them my name and address and possibly even a cup of tea, and it’ll wake up the entire house and the children will never go back to sleep and the whole thing will be a waste of time. I can’t be bothered.

Maybe I should just knock on the window and give the little sods a jolt by shaking my fist at them? Or maybe I shouldn’t. Not much to be gained from being a have-a-go hero in this dark corner of the woods. A couple of boys kicked through the front door of Number 35 last week, with the owners inside and screaming. I certainly wouldn’t want to encourage that.

What shall I do then? Switch on the telly and pretend I can’t hear them? Except the remote’s broken. No, I think I’ll just lie here until it goes quiet out there and then, er, put down the diary and go to sleep. Next time they come, maybe I’ll call the police.

Except I won’t, of course, because there won’t be a next time. We’ll be gone. We’ll have left it all behind: street crime, parking fines, Ken Livingstone, London…We’ve had enough of it all.

I think we have.

At any rate I hope we have, because most of our belongings are already in storage half way up the M5. Finley, the two children and I—and the new puppy (called Mabel, after the dream)—we’re moving on. To a new and fragrant life in the slow lane. We will be joining that peculiar section of the human race that doesn’t get baity when queuing. Somehow. And there’s clearly not a single reason to be feeling nervous about it.

In any case the children and I—and Finley and his mobile, intermittently—have a good long break in France ahead of us, to mull the thing over.

It’s a rough old life.

July 21stFrance (#ulink_0c75b7c5-1998-517a-921e-55324d6df31d)

Things have gone a bit crazy in London since we left. According to my radio there’s a suicide bomber hiding out on our old street, and the whole area’s been evacuated. Nobody’s dead. I don’t think the bomb even went off. But the terrorist is still very much at large. And in our street!

Should I call some of our old neighbours to commiserate, or would it seem like gloating? Don’t know. Would dearly love to discover whose garden he’s hiding in, though. Because if he leapt over the wall from the tube station, as they’re saying he did, he must be on our side of the road, which means he might even be in our garden. Ex-garden, that is.

In any case, it’s all very…exciting’s the wrong word, of course. Shocking. Shocking. Poor old London. I suddenly feel a bit like a rat deserting a sinking ship. Awful. On the other hand it is slightly annoying, after ten years putting up with all those boring, unsolved low-level mini-crimes, to be missing out on the big one. Our old house might even be on the news.

Ripley and Dora found a drowned hedgehog in the swimming pool earlier this morning. Their obsession with all aspects of the ongoing—and apparently endless—embalming-and-burial ceremony is teetering on fetishistic, I think. Dora claims she’s been studying the Egyptians at school but it’s the first time she’s mentioned it, and I don’t know what R’s excuse is. Last I saw, he had covered the wretched animal in yoghurt and very small lumps of Playdough; and Dora, in mystical monotone, was invoking ‘voodoo and death spirits’ over the body. Is that what people did to the Pharaohs? I think not. In any case I’m finding it faintly disturbing. Also wasteful of yoghurt and needlessly untidy. Perhaps this news from home might distract them a bit.

August 14th (#ulink_5857e6ac-9915-531c-b837-afede45529ca)

Still in France. Lovely. Bad economics, perhaps. But we had to go somewhere. The Dream House is due to become officially ours exactly two days after we get back. We exchange and complete simultaneously. Which means—as Fin so wittily insists on pointing out—we could still duck out if we wanted to. We could still change our minds.

Except we don’t want to. Everything’s going to be wonderful.

Also, Hatty called this morning. Took a break from her very important job looking after other people’s billions to tell me she had read somewhere, possibly in Heat, that Johnny Depp had just bought a small stately home in the same area as our Dream House. The article didn’t say exactly where it was, but apparently JD and the wife, who I know is famous but can’t remember her name, have been touring all the schools in what is about to be our local town. Which means they’ll have done a tour of Ripley and Dora’s school. Which means—perhaps—that Ripley and Dora and the little Deppies could wind up being in the same classes together, which means they could wind up being friends! Which means we could be friends!

I picture us now: JD—and the wife—and all the other new friends we’re going to make…I can see us relaxing on our beautiful terrace. The children are upstairs, snoozing. (Perhaps the little Deppies are upstairs with them, having a sleepover.) And we’re drinking wine, we’re talking films and novels, we’re basking in the warmth of our outdoor heaters, watching the stars in the big, open sky and then maybe…God, I dunno. Perhaps Johnny produces a couple of grams of—

Dora, Ripley and I are going to bake cakes together, and pick apples together, and speak to each other in French. We’re going to build bonfires and learn the names of wild flowers, and plant a Christmas tree so we can use the same one every year. We’re going to learn to ride, and I might get some geese and a little Jersey cow, and every day after school we’re going to climb up into the fields and the woods behind the house, and—yes—go kite flying. And we’ll have picnics together, and read old-fashioned novels out loud to one another: Swallows and Amazons, for example. Black Beauty. Treasure Island. Little Women. Maybe, when they’re older, even a bit of Dickens…

I’ve not been a perfect mother up until now. I’ve been chaotic and impatient and always in a hurry and usually hung-over and constantly preoccupied, if not by my work then by chatting to my friends on the blower. I hate cooking. I hate making angel get-ups out of cardboard. I never remember whose friend is coming to tea on what day, or when the term starts. I love it when the children watch DVDs. And I always forget to go to parents’ evenings. Mea culpa. That’s enough of that. They know I love them, I suppose.

In any case all that’s going to change from now on. It is.

For example, I’ve ordered the sew-on nametags. There’s something special about sew-on nametags, of course. They’re a sort of ‘From a good home’ branding mark; possibly a ‘My mother doesn’t work’ branding mark, too (but I mustn’t be bitter). Either way, they shout of stable upbringings, balanced diets, selfless parenting and time management at its best. So I’ve ordered the nametags and if it kills me, I am going to sew them on. It will be the first step in what I fully intend to be a long and glorious transition from hassled, incompetent and very slightly selfish urban working mother to laid-back earth-mother-style Domestic Goddess. That’s right.

I will still work, of course. But I’ll do it when the children are asleep or at school. Or something. And after school the children will be free to play in the fields, and I won’t sit on the sidelines muttering to myself over the newspapers. In fact I may even give up reading newspapers altogether. And the time that I save not reading them I shall now spend playing with the children because from now on—and this is a promise—

I am going to be a completely different human being.

September 1st (#ulink_1211b30c-43a7-5f7b-aa35-9d3d67571eac)

On the ferry home at last. Lots of fat, bored, hideous teenagers wandering around eating crisps and shouting. Is it possible that Ripley and Dora might one day turn into flabby, oral-fixated morons just like these? And if so, do I really want to be stranded with them, day after day, deep in the English countryside, while my husband travels up and down to Soho? Possibly not.

Ripley and Dora have gone to explore, by which they mean find the sweet shop. Fin’s reading a film script. He has another one resting beneath it, ready for him to read after that. And it occurs to me I’m feeling more than a little bit irritable. Not surprisingly, perhaps. We’re due to exchange and complete on the new house the day after tomorrow, and we’ve neither of us set eyes on it since May.

Thousands of people do what we’re doing. Families move out of London every day, and they all claim to be very happy about it. They can’t all be lying. Can they? It’s going to be wonderful. It’s going to be better than wonderful.

I wonder if Johnny Depp plays tennis?

Monday September 3rd (#ulink_0f712547-e2e8-517b-963e-36e157123d4e)

Filthy weather. Bloody England.

The estate agent made it clear he didn’t want us to visit the house this morning. He tried hard to sound too busy to fit us in, but it was obvious he had nothing else to do. I got the distinct impression he was suppressing a yawn for the entire conversation.

So we left the children with Finley’s parents and drove over. Looking at the map, we thought it would take only about forty-five minutes but—fresh to this bucolic existence as we are—we hadn’t fully taken into our calculations the tractor factor.

In any case the journey took over two hours, just as Finley’s father had always warned us it would. He says the journey could never really take less than two hours because if there aren’t tractors blocking the way there’ll be a couple of oldies, killing a little of their excess time by driving somewhere unnecessary as slowly as mechanically possible, specifically to annoy the younger people who are running late in the long line of cars behind them. Well, no, he didn’t say that exactly. In fact he didn’t say it at all. He just said people drove slower in the country, and to be careful of speed cameras.

Goodness, though, there do seem to be an awful lot of elderly persons in this corner of the countryside. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, of course. Of course, of course. Oldies have to live somewhere, don’t they? And so on.

The last time we saw the Dream House was on a beautiful sunny day back in May. The grass had been freshly cut and there was honeysuckle growing in vast, sweet-smelling clumps all over the terrace balustrade. It was breathtakingly pretty. It was beautiful.