Town and gown

Well, it's the cusp of another weekend.  I've got several items in the diary over the next couple of days, football tomorrow and off to the Globe on Sunday for a production of The Merchant Of Venice.  It's at times like this that the value of living in a city becomes apparent to one.  Yes, it can be frantic, but the diversions available to are huge.

I grew up in east London, and it was the received wisdom when I was a nipper, and probably still is, that as soon as one was able, you should up-sticks and move out to the country.  By country I mean west Essex of course.  Our faith in the desirability of Essex was blind.  None of us knew the place.  It was simply the closest "not-London" to where we lived, and therefore better.

I nearly gave into this fad myself a few years ago.  The wife and I were that close to buying a house out in the sticks.  It was a lovely house in a lovely university town nestling on the banks of picturesque river.  We took the precaution of visiting the place on a nondescript February weekend.  We stayed over in a B&B, and so were able to spend the evening in our soon-to-be home town.  And that's what derailed the whole project.  The pubs at night were a very different proposition from the same establishments during the day.  During the day the place was full of day trippers.  The pubs were convivial, packed with pleasant people and their gun dogs.  At night they were full of bored and drunk young locals.  I thought to myself then: if we lived here, we'd never go out after dark.  And we like going out after dark; it's "our thing".

So we pulled out and stayed in London.  And here we are still.  

 - Taxi!  Take me something stimulating and nearby, would you?  And don't spare the horses.