There’s not too much to do on the farm in February.
So we all ran away for the weekend to a beautiful corner of rural Sussex where there were hills and sheep, dark nights and silence, which made a pleasant change from the flat urbanised landscape of Essex. We even had a dusting of snow.
When we came home we said “Wasn’t it lovely? It was so quiet and peaceful without the incessant traffic noise of home.”
We talked about whether we’d like to live there. We said we would.
And then we went up to town. We went to the theatre and there were so many places to eat we had a job to decide which one to pick. We walked along the Thames and stood on the bridges watching the water rush by under our feet.
When we came home we said “Wasn’t it fun? There’s so much to do.”
We talked about whether we’d like to live there. We said it would be lovely to have a pied-à-terre.
But when we thought about it, the hills in Sussex were quite steep and the roads very narrow. And London was very noisy and crowded. Anyway, how could we afford a pied-à-terre? Then we looked around us at the two cock pheasants strutting along the wall outside the kitchen window, the carpet of snowdrops under the apple trees and the fields beyond and we said “Aren’t we lucky to live here? Why do we want to go anywhere else?”
That’s the trouble with February. It’s such a non-event and leads to far too much idle speculation. Roll on spring.