Archive article: 2001/07/06 - farmers weekly

6 JULY 2001 ------------------------- LIFES different in London. People eat differently. They eat out more – and its not surprisingly, since there are so many takeaways and restaurants. And

you should see the variety: Indian, Thai, Chinese, Cantonese, Mongolian… You name it, you can eat it. You might not be able to recognise it, but you can eat it. Lots of takeaways but, as the

old joke goes, not many cats! At home, we had a chippie – and that was five miles away. You had to eat your chips in the car on the way home or they got cold. Ive got fat as a house since

Ive been here. Its partly the food and partly the lack of exercise from working in an office. I went back to the farm last weekend, spent Saturday working and, boy, did I ache afterwards.

"Youve forgotten what real work is," the old man said. He had a point. My hands have got soft and they now bleed easily. I noticed the dirt on them, too. Ive got used to having

clean fingernails. The mood at home is odd. It looks like we escaped foot-and-mouth, but we know plenty of people who havent and I guess no-ones escaped it completely. The sparks gone out of

some people, but theres a determination among others. Its like my grandad says: "Weve come through worse than this." Shame the family didnt seem as pleased to see me as my dog

did. I dont think Ive seen a single collie since Ive been in London. Me and Bill went for a long walk along the river, the way we used to go when I was a kid and he was a pup. I thought: I

like London, I love it, but I like coming back here more. Despite working, I did find time to call in at my local. Funny, I still call it my local even though, technically, that titles now

held by an All Bar One. I half expected to find my older brother in there with his mates, laughing at me, as he always used to do when we were youngsters. I noticed how long it took to get

served. It was probably only a minute or two but is seemed ages. Londons made me impatient. Ive got used to the immediacy of everything – getting served in a restaurant, filling up with

petrol, even buying a lottery ticket. Its done, quick as you like, and on to the next thing. When Tom, the landlord, finally appeared he claimed to have been downstairs with the new barmaid

changing a barrel (if the gossip is to be believed, he was probably downstairs changing something with the new barmaid – and not the barrel). The pub was home to the usual suspects. A few

friends, a few friends of friends, one or two distant relatives (my cousin didnt look like hed moved off his stool in the snug since I left at Christmas). It was just like the old days

really. No-one asked why I was called Big Dave, they just called me it. I thought: This village is where I belong. Home. Funny, then, that by Sunday lunchtime I was desperate to get away. Me

and my brother fell out and I wanted to get back to London – I was going out for beers on Sunday evening anyway, (when in Rome!) and didnt want to be late. I drove back along the M4 and the

Westway. Its a great route, the last few miles as you enter London, dropping into town like youre on a plane, high above the neon lights and the brightly-lit buildings. Surprisingly, there

wasnt much traffic. I got back in plenty of time. I even had time to scrub my fingernails before going out… OUR MONTHLY LETTER FROM LONDON BRINGS YOU THE HIGHS AND LOWS OF ONE COUNTRYMAN

LIVING AND WORKING IN THE CAPITAL – BUT WHOSE HEART REMAINS FIRMLY BACK ON THE FARM