Flindt on Friday: Boxers and bijou balconies in the Big Smoke
© Kathy Horniblow We tried as hard as we could to persuade The Muscle to hang around in the farmhouse for a bit longer.
He’d had a good summer here, helping out with harvest, doing lots of jobs in the garden and generally clearing his head after working flat-out in central London over the past couple of years, but he was beginning to feel he was missing out on City life.
The animals didn’t help our cause. He was enjoying another kebab in the dining room, and we all remarked that it smelt spicier than usual.
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Then we spotted the monster dump left by an injured and housebound dog just under the table.
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The next night, a cat brought in the first mouse of the winter, and grew bored with it.
A chaotic late-night mouse hunt ensued, with tables, fridges and sideboards being hauled around – by (who else) The Muscle – while a pack of over-exuberant dogs forgot their injuries and crashed over each other in pursuit of the tiny terrified creature. “I’m going back to London for some peace and quiet,” he muttered as he rearranged the furniture.
City slicker
That meant someone had to volunteer to take him up, and everyone volunteered me. It has been some years since I drove in London – 15, I reckon – and as the years go by, the idea gets less and less appealing.
But it’s good to get out of your comfort zone, so after selecting the right vehicle (Terracan? Aged, muddy and intimidating, but I’m not confident of its reliability on a death-trap “smart” motorway. Tractor? Nice idea, but no. Octavia Scout? Perfect.) and loading it up, we set off.
You wonder why Google predicted “70 miles, 140 minutes” until you hit the North Circular, and then you wish you had an automatic car. Or a tractor. The Muscle navigated us deep into Marylebone, and then up into Camden.
I felt rather grown up as we pulled over and parked up in a leafy street, although my left calf ached. It was mostly quiet and pleasant. There were magpies in the tree outside his window, and even an exhaust-free motorbike hooning round the residential roads. It was a bit like home.
© Charlie Flindt
We walked to see his brother, now living in a narrow cul-de-sac lined with pastel-painted two-storey houses. I expected Hugh Grant to appear at any moment.
The top-floor flat is smaller than our kitchen, and his kitchen is smaller than our Aga. He has a tiny Astroturfed balcony that catches the sun, and a lovely new friend in a neighbouring block who had unexpectedly found a pair of his boxer shorts, blown over to her balcony from his washing line. Life is crowded up there.
Grass is greener
On the walk back, we took a shortcut through the garden of a boarded-up Edwardian villa, now converted to “community” space. There was a handkerchief of grass and a playground with a solitary toddler on a tiny roundabout, watched by his mother from a nearby bench.
We stepped over an aged terrier who wasn’t moving for anyone; I wasn’t sure he could even see us. “This is as much green as most people get around here,” said The Muscle.
Blimey – that was some comment. I gave it a lot of thought on the way home, missing the A307 as a result and getting lost in Richmond (where the Saturday masses all mysteriously dressed like farmers) and further west (where they didn’t).
I finally found the M3, and as London shrank in the rear-view mirror, couldn’t help thinking that, in the end, fertiliser prices aren’t really worth that much fuss.