Big week in England. First the Queen went on Facebook, then her grandson went and announced his engagement. And in my little corner of this green and pleasant land, the big news is that husband has officially moved in with me.
This is, I acknowledge, the norm for most married couples. But for the past two years I’ve been full-time in the Cotswolds while husband has spent a few nights a week in our miniature London flat to accommodate his working life. And let’s just say I’ve cherished those few nights a week of me time, indulging in a secret life of reading novels, watching trash television, and eating toast for dinner. Husband was never too fond of this arrangement despite my repeated attempts to defend it. One of my favorite lines was pointing out that this was exactly the same arrangement that David Double-Barrelled and his girlfriend had and how well it worked for them. Then DDB went and committed suicide last month which, needless to say, made that argument seem less convincing. Anyway, now that husband’s working life is demanding less London time and the London rental market has sky-rocketed, it made sense to consolidate and move in together.
Our tenant moved into the London flat on Saturday, so we had a last hurrah in the city earlier in the week. Our tour of the neighborhood’s greatest hits included a couple of glasses of prosecco at Negozio Classica, still managed by the lovely, sweater-vested Giuseppe; a stop-in at the Cow, where middle-age is doing nothing to dissuade the local hipsters from thinking they are still hip; and concluded at Crazy Homies, the only decent Mexican restaurant in England. It was the kind of night that made me feel warm and fuzzy about London. The next morning as I was getting into the car to drive back to the Cotswolds, I peeled a sodden, dusky pink business card advertising Posh Escort service off the windshield. I can’t help thinking that perhaps this is the more appropriate abiding image of London.
