Dreams Burn Down

Alright, enough with the artsy-fartsy photos. It’s just so drearily, unrelentingly damp here that I’m unmotivated to think about anything. Everything in our flat feels slightly damp. In resignation I’ve just hung out the washing in a light rain, which is perhaps the most British thing I’ve ever done. Because even when it’s not raining here it’s still raining, in the sense that the ground and air are wet. I miss the dry cold of winter in Ontario. (Then I complained about my desiccated skin peeling off in large sheets, now I complain about it mildewing through excessive moisture. Clearly I will never be satisfied.)

We listen to a lot of internet radio here. They play a lot of Ride; this morning it was Like a Daydream, one of my 16-year-old anthems. The band was four very cute English boys from Oxford and I was madly in love. Now that I’m living in Oxford I’m looking for some extra meaning or excitement but it’s not really there. Back then I wanted nothing more than to live in England, like any number of teenaged Anglophiles who were deeply wounded by the demise of Select magazine. Now I think I’m too old to appreciate it in that sense.

I just read an article in the Guardian about the closing of a famous London club, Trash, that for years was the hub of the indie scene and from which emerged Bloc Party and the Klaxons, among other bands. The manager started it when he was 22, and the revelers in the photos looked like teenagers. It occurred to me, with horror, that I am old enough to be the mother of a teenager. I’d be a colossal disappointment to my sixteen-year-old self, since I have failed to frequent any London clubs, but on a day-to-day basis I’m more concerned with my job, my finances, keeping the flat clean and making it to the gym. In other words, I'm a crashing bore.

And anyway, living here means I don’t get to be romantic about it anymore. I think visitors can find the England they want to – the country is very canny about providing what tourists want and you can find potted experiences easily enough. There’s certainly an awful lot to be seen and appreciated. But some days all it means to me is that I can’t get my laundry dry, I can’t run hot and cold water out of one tap, I can’t find a place to buy stamps, and the banks are so unapologetically irrational that I have to laugh (and then cry). The country’s history is criss-crossed with powerlines, there's a Starbucks on Carnaby Street, and people love their cars here just as much as anywhere else. I’m both disappointed to see 'big box' stores and excited that I can find Kiehl’s products – a contradiction that pretty much sums it up. When not living here I want it to be that idealized, unrealistic England, when living here I just want all the mod cons I’m used to. That’s not to say there haven’t been great moments – just not at this time of year. When the land dries and the sun is out, there’s nothing better than a stroll in London or exploring country lanes, which really are as beautiful as the postcards.

I have to start planning some adventures for the new year. Need I remind you that I have 30 days of holiday this year? Ah, the bright side emerges.