Spring in the countryside is a wonder - but it is tinged with sadness | Emma Beddington
Last spring, I finally moved out of town. That makes it sound like I gave in after decades of edgy murder-mile living, rivers of piss, my children playing with syringes. I did a tiny bit of that back when you could still see blowjobs and drug deals from the window of my east London flat and not men in ironic Deirdre Barlow glasses selling rare succulents for 700, but mainly I lived in a quiet corner of Brussels. When I moved back to the UK, it was to a provincial city centre where I complained constantly, like those idiots who pay millions to live in Soho, then decide they don't like the noise of people having fun.
So after a year enveloped in the blessed peace of the outer suburbs, what have I learned? Well, after a lifetime of aching for the first frost, fetishising boots and boring on about hygge, I admit it: I was wrong about winter. It turns out that when you move somewhere with no insulation as an energy crisis starts to bite, no amount of woodsmoke-scented candles and hot chocolate will keep you cosy. When people recommend turning your thermostat down a degree, I laugh, my breath dancing spirals in the morgue-cold air: the modest number on ours is a mad aspiration, like me saying I'll do a 7am yoga class. Getting out of bed (two duvets, blanket, electric blanket, flattened and grilled like a human panini) requires superhuman effort: I put my clothes on top of my pyjamas, so no skin is ever exposed, mummying myself in so many layers my arms stick out like a toddler in a padded snowsuit. It's very sexy.
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