This week I find myself in exactly the same spot I was last week. At the residential teaching college near Bath I mentioned in my last post. Me and Elizabeth were both packing up to go camping in South Devon for the week when the boss ran over to us file in hand begging us to stay. I say begging, I mean asking whether we wanted to spend the week in a tent on an overpriced campsite in the rain. Or a week earning cash with as many cooked breakfasts and barbecue dinners as we could eat. Mmm.
I’m all for rough camping, I’ve done it loads of times over the years, but I’m not paying 20 quid for the pleasure of sleeping in a muddy field, when I could sleep under a hedge for free. Or get a room in a Travel Lodge for £39. Needless to say we said yes to the teaching and another week of living in this non-reality of PG Wodehouse’s country house in Wiltshire.
I say non-reality for two reasons: Firstly, I’ve never been so long without ever having to prepare my own meals (all meals, coffee, beer, and wine is provided by starched white uniformed waiters). And secondly, being here bears no resemblance to 21st century England. No supermarkets, kebab shops, betting shops, louts, drunks, litter. And certainly no dogs.
I love it. Love it for the same reason people go on holiday. True, I have to work. But as the work is just an extension of the meal times – chatting to the students over paella and steak frites – I’m happy to be finally finding that elusive place where my work and my life are becoming entangled into one long meandering road. Instead of two straight roads heading in opposite directions cluttered on either side by frustration, anger and fear, both leading to dead ends and the inevitable nervous breakdown.
I’m not quite there yet, but this is as close as I’ve come for decades. For one, I’m not clock watching, or fearing my classes or students. And two, neither do I have to travel to work. It’s not the journey I’ve always hated about commuting. It’s having to deal with reality before I’ve even sat at my desk. Here in Wiltshire there is no reality. I walk ten metres from my room to a massive cooked breakfast and the day begins, finishing 12 hours later over a huge plate of barbecue spare ribs and a barrel of Argentinian Malbec.
The only problem is what on earth am I going to write about over the next few months? Except my increasing weight caused by my fierce appetite and a never ending platter of food and wine. Perhaps I’ll have to wander down to the local pub and create a scene. An episode of loutish behaviour not seen since my days in Nottingham. Pleading to the police as I am dragged away that I only did it for my art.
‘I needed something to write about officer. Honest.’
‘You said that last time, Blogley. We’re not in Nottingham now you know. Or Lyon, for that matter. Get into the van. You’re nicked.’