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London versus Lyme
I am moving to the country. Now you assume I am some middle-aged stock broker reading Country Living and visualising herself in Hunter wellingtons and a tweed skirt, gazing wistfully over the landscape with a wicker basket of carefully arranged orchard fruits whilst petrol bombs fly through the window and the city burns around her.
But this is not the case. I am twenty-six years old, I avoid reading magazines of any kind and I have virtually no idea why we are experiencing the worst recession since the 1930's, only that I can blame people who earn more than me, which for me, is pretty much everyone, the bastards.
My reasons for moving to the country are many; I hate foamed milk, I hate the word ‘fabulous’, I hate being kissed on both cheeks by people who clearly hate me, I hate litter, I hate getting mugged by teenagers who never grew out of putting their hands down their knickers in public. I hate a lot of things about London, some people don’t hate anything at all, they claim to love everyone and everything; I hate these people.
I am poised on the brink of insanity in this city, another year would see me living in a converted warehouse selling priceless and pointless art installations, talking to myself on a Blackberry and finding it reasonable to spend a thousand pounds on a pair of shoes as long as I recycle the box.
Now you assume that I am single, obsessed with Mr Darcy and cake but you're only half right. I am obsessed with both cake and Mr Darcy, but I am not single. In fact, I have found myself the modern equivalent of a Mr Darcy who can bake cakes and I intend to hide him in the country, away from the rest of the female population.
“We have to serve cappuccinos, people will expect it.”
“I refuse.”
“You’re unreasonable.”
“Yes I know.”
Anthony thinks I am unreasonable. However he also thinks that giving up excellently paid, private chef work in London, moving to deepest Dorset and selling scones for a living during a recession is reasonable behavior.
We followed this conversation up with an argument over a stuffed fish, which I momentarily believed to be the symbol of everything that I and our future business would stand for. Thus, I spent half an hour sobbing over the topic before quietly realising that something else would do just as well on that particular wall in the restaurant. I still have not admitted this change of heart to Anthony who is desperately contacting obscure taxidermists and negotiating credit agreements with regards a 2' pike, in an attempt to placate me.
The concept of the English Tea & Dining Room has been under dispute amongst us for many months and whether, for instance, we should serve foamed milk has become a subject that provokes, almost instantaneously, the throwing of solid objects across the room.
My argument is that foamed milk is an imported, Italian idea that has had it's day, is now associated with chains of vile establishments that tear the soul out of the local high street and that it is more traditionally English to serve coffee in a pot with single cream. Anthony points out that it has become so accepted in modern culture that it would come as a shock for any potential customer to be unable to order a cappuccino in an premises that serves coffee.
So do we do what is expected of us, or do we break new ground? Or is it old ground? Is this a subject that deserves this much personal anguish? Probably not, but these days I find myself getting emotional over cutlery, light fixtures and oil based paints. Bank forms and other such administrative documents are eventually sent off blotched and smeared with teardrops.
Our mental condition is not aided by living amongst piles of half-painted bentwood chairs, with boxes of teacups and kitchen equipment piled so high in every room that we each have to call the other on our mobiles to discover our whereabouts in the flat.
"Where are you?"
"In the bedroom."
"So am I, whereabouts?"
"In bed."
"So am I."
Now everything is almost in place for the unveiling of the most charming and proper tea-drinking establishment the world has ever seen.
Whether or not foamed milk will be party to it depends on whether or not Anthony buries my dead body in the foundations of the Town Mill, because that is the only way it is going to happen.
