I didn’t grow up in ‘the sticks’.
I come from a relatively large town inhabited by friendly northerners and double-decker buses. But here I am; living in a quaint little southern village with limited mobile phone reception and too many sheep. It takes half an hour to get anywhere, forcing me to survive on grocery deliveries from the supermarket, which come with a complimentary ticking-off from the driver for having the audacity to reside on a single track road. “SatNav doesn’t reckon this is a real place, luv!” Oh do stop whining, dear fellow .. this is the countryside. And, of course, myself and my fellow villagers are irrationally suspicious of new faces. Outsiders. Speculations will start at the Post Office before travelling to Mrs Tibble who’ll whisper to Stout John who’ll pop into the local pub to discuss who and why and when … like an elongated game of Cluedo, without the murders. Sometimes with the murders. The local is the hive of all knowledge. And what with it costing a nifty to taxi your way home from the closest town after a night of shenanigans, the local is also the hive of all social activity. Including a rather serious game whereby passionate gents throw wooden sticks at dollies. I kid thee not. But the real ales. And the pies. Oh, the pies! But not on a Wednesday when we are blessed with the arrival of the travelling fish and chip van. Everyone partakes, almost ritualistically. A little like the tradition of pushing people into the river before they can be called a local. Weird folk. I’m classed as a local. I jumped in voluntarily the first time, but there have been several shoves since. I don’t quite fit in. My brash, volatile personality sticks out like a turd in a fruit bowl. My language is too vibrant, my clothing too fancy or too exposing, my face doesn’t fit. I refuse to spend a small fortune on wellington boots. I run, for fun. But as I jog through the fields during the early morning glow, in my overly priced running shoes and my too-short shorts, with the wind cutting through my unruly hair, my face a blaze of heat, and I look down at my dog, happiness all over his face, before I look up at this view .. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the world.
1 Comment
Grover
6/19/2017 03:13:09 pm
I think each small town is a variation of Twin Peaks, Everyone should experience what it's like to live in such a weird and wonderful place.
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