Things have been quiet around here, save for the Morocco back story, because things have been hard. Marriages are said to have a 7 year itch; I have had the re-locating equivalent. 7 months in and it's been a hard few weeks. Nothing is new down here any more, summer is ending, I haven't seen people in months and I've had to get used to talking less Monday through Thursday evenings. It's kinda lonely and I miss my friends. Hell, I miss London and my old life. Which hasn't carried on without me, I know that. London has changed, people have moved out, into marriages, in with new lovers, out of old relationships and everyone has fast paced jobs. Yet, some days the vintage buses which run between our village and the town where I work do not charm me. Some days I long for busy tubes and red buses and architecture and fashion and starbucks. To wear high heels. Lipstick. To go out for drinks after work.
Other days I thank god that at least after a stressful day at work I can drive through 7 miles of gorgeous, national park-ified countryside and sit in my beautiful cottage rather than another bloody journey from Holborn to Arsenal jammed up against five other people without enough space to open a newspaper.
Some days I decide we must get a cat. No, a dog. A whippet and a border terrier. A baby perhaps. Other days I cannot even manage to make myself eat and so looking after something else is out of the question. Work is hard. I feel unsettled. I am busy but sometimes I feel something is missing. I second guess every lonely feeling. Everything feels significant but I can't work out why. Ten year anniversaries of every fucking thing crop up every other week at the moment: losing virginity, passing driving test, A-levels, leaving home, starting university, succumbing to depression. Nostalgia so vivid it's crippling. Songs, music, conversation, sex, books and the way the sunlight looks in the early evening.
Talking about it is hard. Writing is worse. Who wants to read such navel gazing that I brought on myself by choosing to uproot here. Husband has it worse. He still sleeps at different houses each works and holds down his London job with skill and aplomb. He has been promoted.
Yet even unending blackberries, foraging, pies, baking, the onset of an Indian summer and a carnival can't seem to lift me this week....