Going To ‘The Countryside’
This post is for city dwellers only. You’re not allowed to read it if you live within 5 miles of a cow.
Okay, urbanites…you know the countryside? Think hard, you must know. It’s where the dirt lives. No Apple stores. No parks. Weird phone reception. The local town has an Indian Restaurant called the Maharajah Curry House, a one-way system, mobility scooters and about 200 charity shops.
And I’m going there this weekend. Into the damp, the mud, the place full of tree-things. My hosts asked me if I’m bringing my own wellingtons. I had to stop and think for a minute to remember what they were. The last time I saw a pair, I was seven. All I’m taking with me are my cold germs, some moisturiser and seventy two sweaters. I’m not sure what we’re going to do there, water the goats or milk the hens or plant straw or something.
I’ll be in Somerset, which I think is in Scotland or possibly Belgium. To get there, I have to catch a ferry, a car, four buses, three trains and a donkey. I’m not taking my laptop as I don’t think they have wi-fi, or lights, or running water.
I’m going on Saturday. I’ll be back Sunday. That’s, like, a whole day wasted.