The kettle was boiling and the French press readied this morning when I realized we had no milk. This lack of basic provisions is a familiar annoyance in the weekly back and forth between London and the Cotswolds. With some exasperation I extricated myself from my pajamas and into some marginally suitable for public consumption clothing. I couldn’t be bothered to brush my teeth, I just hoped I wouldn’t run into anyone I knew. (This attitude is another hangover from London – you always run into someone you know in the market square!).
It’s a one block walk along a stone wall-lined lane to our local shop. Once inside my list expanded from milk to include 2 croissants (hooray they were ready early this morning!), a potato and cheese pastie for husband, an FT Weekend and a punnet of raspberries. This last item then created the requirement to walk across the green to the butcher who also happens to sell yogurt from the next village over. By now I was positively buzzing, chatting with the butcher as I juggled my wares (our town has gone green too, shopping bags cost 10p and proceeds go to charity). The whole experience is different from say the time last week when I went to get a pint of milk at the corner shop in London and the shopkeeper hawked a giant loogie straight onto the ground of his own shop while he took my money. Charming.
Six months in as an official (weekend) resident I am still in love with every aspect of village life. In fact I am most in love with the mundane routines, the pleasure of which seems to have been totally lost in an urban existence.
