Home Front
I was so dispirited by the roar of the nearby M25 on a recent dog walk that I started to think about moving.
Our three-bedroom semi-detached in Bookham, built just after the war, has been home for 20 years now. That’s longer than I have lived anywhere else. I admit to having a begrudging affection for the place, despite the interminable train line to London, the useless Co-op and the uptight dog-walkers.
Our children grew up in this house. Two of our dogs happily lived and died here. It is part of the fabric of all our lives. But, still, how refreshing it would be to have a new town to complain about.
There is a curious pride in living somewhere so chronically unfashionable. I don’t mind that people’s eyes glaze over at the mention of Bookham. ‘Ah yes,’ they say, ‘we used to drive through it on our way to Guildford.’ Or they vaguely knew a couple who moved here before getting divorced. Some launch immediately into an impersonation of Steve Mcgarrett from Hawaii Five-0: ‘Book ’em, Danno!’
Jane Austen, who had a connection to Bookham, wrote in her diary that she would do anything to prevent having to come here. She would have been familiar with two beautiful old churches still standing (one of them is Norman). The local common, said to have been a hunting ground loved by Henry VIII – and now loved by our dog, Destry – is lovely, too. Today, much of modern Bookham is indistinguishable from any other dormitory town. Its village character is increasingly lost to oversize, unaffordable new homes – many with stupid electric gates.
Every time I suggest moving nearer the sea, or back into London, Mr Home Front changes the subject. Despite the
parlous state of South Western Railway, he likes it here. His getting regular lifts into work from his colleague, known to us as Sky News Ben, may be a factor. Sky News Ben’s family live down the road (in a nicer house than ours, according to Betty who babysits his children).
Uncertainty over Brexit has been Mr HF’S main reason for staying put. And the fact that our 20-something children are still living at home. Betty is planning to share a flat from September with her Brummie friend who goes shoplifting. But Fred, appalled by the high cost of renting, is happy to stay here until his retirement in 2060. ‘You don’t want to be living with your old mum for ever,’ I said. ‘You’ll end up like Kenneth Williams to my Louie.’
‘Infamy! Infamy! You’ve all got it in for me!’ responded Fred, embracing the comparison.
After spending his adolescence moaning about Surrey and plotting his escape, he now makes glowing comments of a most unconvincing kind.
‘I really like this kitchen extension,’ he will suddenly say, running his hand along our B&Q laminate worktop. Or, staring thoughtfully out of the window, he’ll sigh, ‘Bookham’s so leafy, isn’t it?’
And then there’s his latest ominous statement: ‘If you got a loft conversion, it would really add value to the house.’ (Subtext: ‘I need more creative space in which to write my state-of-the-nation masterpiece.’)
I do worry where we would walk the untrainable Destry if we moved. Although many London parks now have enclosed areas for dogs, it is not quite the same as bounding around the vast, enclosed fields at Polesden Lacey.
Every so often I go on rightmove.com in search of our dream home, and present Mr HF with my shortlist, selected from unaffordable properties within a 50-mile radius of London. He has a problem with every place I fancy. Brighton: ‘Too many seagulls and social justice warriors.’ Hastings: ‘Full of satanists; impossible journey.’ London: ‘Dream on.’
I spoke to my old friend Chris. She now lives in Normandy, and concluded that, no matter where you live, you end up doing exactly the same things as you did before. ‘You think life is going to be wonderfully transformed, Al, but none of the English ex-pats here is enjoying the bracing sea air, or immersing themselves in French culture. They’re all sitting in front of the TV watching Homes Under the Hammer.’
Chris has a point. We should just stay put and pretend the roar of the M25 is the ocean.