I love London. I do believe, hand on heart, that it is the greatest city in the world. I have lived here alomost all my adult life. My friends and my work are here; friends with whom I have grown up and grown older; work that really isn’t transferable anywhere else. Work I love, but which doesn’t bring a huge income; no pension plan or any other financial benefits, so retirement is just a word, not a date I look forward to reaching.
I would say after all these years that I am a Londoner.
I was born in the country, grew up in the country, and at this time of year in particular the country exerts a huge pull. For the first time in I don’t know how many years, when I came home on Monday, London did not feel like home. I felt my days here were numbered.
This may well pass. I rather hope it does, or it leaves me with a predicament. I could sell my home here and buy something more spacious, more substantial in the country, but I should have no income. In London people walk. The countryside, ironically, is the home of car culture. I’d like to get rid of my car. I should happily never drive again.
I am not rich. I shall never be rich. There are more sands in the bottom half of my life’s time glass than the top. Where do I want to spend the last deacdes of my life? I don’t know. Yes I do. I want the best of both worlds; to have my cake and eat it as I do now, and to make the balance more even so that I am as much in the country as in the town.
Is that achievable? I don’t know.