[This article was first published on 21st January 2010, on http://life.hereisthecity.com/sound_off/1162.cntns].
In a disillusioned phase of thinking my writing might, could or would be published one day, I rather vainly penned my brief memoirs of that lifetime ago I spent cavorting in the City. Worry you not, that pipedream was more rapidly and potently flushed away than by an almighty dose of heavy duty Domestos. The shelving of the book that will never be more than pixels rather than tangible paper pages is not the subject of today’s navel gazing. It is the Epilogue I was pondering this morning in a moment of suburban silence, as I assessed my current surroundings and compared them to the denouement I had envisaged. The Epilogue is interestingly the only fictional chapter of the dust-gathering book; in a gaudy attempt at a Happy Ever After ending, formulaic of fairytales and Disney films.
But the sun didn’t quite shine on the picket fence on the day we moved out of our London abode and into our suburban sanctuary. In actual fact, it coincided with the start of the unimaginatively monikered ‘Big Freeze’. Furthermore, the rental property had been without heating for the past month and the closest thing to a picket fence was a rusty gate on a limp hinge. Home sweet home.
Though I might now (just) be able to say that things have thankfully gone uphill since square one, it is more a consequence of things careering on a freefall trajectory downhill for a good month before embarking on a slow and Herculean struggle back up the summit. The first month was a haze of boxes and bubble wrap. Then suddenly Mr A went back to work and Baby Bel and I were all alone.
What was once viewed as the Rolls Royce of nimble and compact baby buggies in the context of urban living became utterly devoid of use in the inches of snow. We were officially housebound – on alien territory, friendless and trapped; imprisoned in a house that didn’t feel like home. Not to mention the lying awake in the night listening to the unfamiliar sounds of the house creaking and foxes screaming – not dissimilar to that of a woman being strangled (I imagine), which some may suggest holds some deeper Freudian interpretation.
Aside from the revelation that our undertaking to up sticks to the suburbs is significantly more common than I ever thought possible (the streets are literally paved with baby buggies and there are small people aka children everywhere – it’s like living in Lilliput); plus that it is not a myth about service being substandard outside cities (don’t get me started on this); and also that Mr A despises his daily armpit to armpit commute and Baby Bel sees less of him than she ever has, things are just hunky dory. In all seriousness, I am yet to regret this move despite how it may sound. Wearing my long term investment hat, this is just a short term blip. Somewhere on the horizon lies our picket fenced home, a good local school and a family friendly environment to raise little ones – fairytale ending and Disney theme tune optional.
So begins my journey from banking, baby and beyond, to the ‘burbs and baby number two. And judging from the perfect domesticity of yummy mummies at every turn, sipping their skinny lattes in their fuzz-free cashmere, so also should begin my quest for Stepford wife status.