I moved to the suburbs in the spring of 2021, a classic post-lockdown move. My husband and I had been hot-desking between the bedroom and the kitchen table and we were all far too emotionally involved with the rat that frequented our bird feeder. I had wanted to move before Covid: the bed shook when buses went past, and the frequent drunken meltdowns on our conveniently located doorstep left me awkwardly squeezing past sobbing strangers to take the dog for his late-night pee, muttering: “Sorry, could I just …” I had the noise abatement team on speed dial and a throbbing vein in my eyelid.
Arriving here, where semis with gardens meet the green belt, and cows graze by the big Sainsbury’, was like the switch to colour in The Wizard of Oz, combined with the moment my noise-cancelling headphones kick in: relief and wonder. We slept with the window open and every morning I listened to the birds and smelled the roses, unable to believe my luck. Two years on, I still feel that. I’m incredulous that I get to live here, surrounded by green and birds, in peace so enveloping that I can finally hear myself think (though, wow, it’s boring: “Is that the one-eyed cat?” “Should I have a biscuit?”).
