I think it would be fair to say
that my trips to London are becoming fewer and further between and each time I
go back for work I feel just a little bit further removed from what I used to
find the most banal and mundane of routines. So much so in fact I’ve begun to
wonder whether I am actually physically changing as a result of living out in
the sticks most of the time. As I wandered about the City, desperately trying
to look nonchalant and bored but inwardly feeling fascinated and not a little overwhelmed
by the noise and the smells and the people (people, people everywhere!!!) I
could hear a little David Attenborough voice perched somewhere above my right
shoulder, narrating my life as a migratory animal that’s not quite made it
back to the right place….. It went something like this…
[Scene 1: City street, 8.21am]
"So here…, in the sprawling
metropolis on the plains of the South East, we see the lesser spotted country
girl, tentatively making her way into the urban jungle, part of the monthly
migration to reconnect with the herd and engage in the meeting and drinking
rituals of her juvenile years. But if we look closely we can detect a certain evolution
of her species, detectable only to the very keen observer, that set her apart
from the pack. Her progress in the morning stampede of citybeests down
Fenchurch Street is perceptibly slower than her counterparts. Her pace lacks
the urgency and direction that was once there as she finds herself distracted
by the latest winter dresses in the window of Marks & Spencer’s and the
lovely shiny things in the Molton Brown shop. Other signs of her evolution are
more obvious by the fact that she is wearing short sleeves and is still sweating
profusely under her prolific mane of hair, thickened from months in the cold
North West, whilst everyone around her is bundled up in winter coats and
scarves, fully acclimatised to the shift in the seasons down here.
 |
| Urban jungle - hot hot hot! |
[Scene 2: cut to office environment, 11.54am]
Now…, in the throes of going
about her daily routines, evidence of the changes in this internal thermostat become
even more apparent. Accustomed to the chilly winds and rains of Wales, the
lesser spotted country girl struggles to cope with the heat and the recycled
air of the office. As feeding time approaches her instinct to hunt and forage
is frustrated by a short trip to the canteen where after a period of confusion
she manages to secure some distinctly exotic foodstuffs in a plastic box. And so…… as
our lesser spotted country girl starts to feast on her meal, her reactions show
signs that her taste buds have too now changed. Processing the high quantities
of salt and fat and MSG, she pauses, reflects and has a momentary panic that
everything she has been serving her house guests for the past few months has
been utterly bland and desperately under-seasoned, (her usual diet consisting of misshapen vegetables and random cuts of meat plus copious amounts of ketchup). But she perseveres, finishing up her lunch
with what she believes to be a decaffeinated cappuccino from the machine. But watch now….. as she stands, paralysed
with confusion over which buttons to press. Yes. She’s acted. But has she
selected correctly? Let’s watch as she sips at her drink……… oh no, we can detect
the increase in her heart rate, the shaking hands, the cold beads of sweat
appearing on her forehead. It appears that our lesser spotter country girl has
lost her genetic ability to process urban-strength caffeine. Watch
as she now races her way through her afternoon, talking so fast she becomes completely incomprehensible
to her colleagues and just downright annoying to everyone else around her.
[Scene 3: local pub garden, 7.43pm]
And so... with the onset of nightfall, we follow our lesser
spotted country girl to the watering hole..., where she meets up with another member
of her pack and insists that they sit outside, her recalibrated internal
thermostat once again setting her apart from others around her, who sit
shivering into their pints. She engages in the conversation but gets easily distracted
by the sights and sounds and smells around her. Her attention span has become
so used to the relative low stimulation of a rural environment that she suffers a
temporary sensory overload and has to retreat to the little girl’s room to
recover her composure. But even in here
she finds herself slightly bewildered as she almost wrenches the door off its
hinges, forgetting that it is not, in fact, an ill-fitting five-bar gate that
has strengthened her arms to Welsh farmer proportions, rather than perhaps the
more feminine results of the Virgin Active gym in the other females
reapplying their war paint around her. She watches, bemused, for a few seconds,
wondering whether she should emulate their behaviours, then plumps instead to
empty most of the contents of the free hand lotion into her palms before anyone
can detect how battered and rough her hands have become and blow her cover as a
City imposter.
[Scene 4: Waterloo station, 10.33pm – camera pans in to single female
standing stock still with a scene of chaos swirling all around her]
Finally…….we track our lesser
spotted country girl as she joins the reverse mass migration from the City and
finds herself caught up in the catastrophic maelstrom that is a signal failure at
Wimbledon. Packs and packs of people congregate on the concourse, all staring
fixedly at the notice boards or flicking blankly through their smart phones.
But not our country girl. She stands stock still, eyes focusing on nothing in
particular, but intently people watching, taking in the details of their dress
and all of the accoutrements, imaging the life behind each one of them as they
scuttle hurriedly around the station. She does this for more than an hour but
her sense of time also seems to have changed, as she is barely aware of the time
passing but enjoys the opportunity to just….. do…… nothing….. For she knows
that in 24 hours she will be back in her other environment, swept up in the day
to day routines of watering, weeding, preserving and persevering with her
squabbling offspring, reunited with her long-suffering mate. And she will, in the space of just a few hours, once again transform from the tough country bumpkin in the city to the soft, southern townie in the country."
 |
| Country bumpkin or southern townie??? |
Ok so I doubt this is going to
win any BAFTAs and I’m sure Sir David would sue the ass of me if he read this but
maybe this serves as a sign that I need to spend more time with people than
just hanging out with my plants and animals all week long!
 |
| Let's call this meeting to order! |
