Until this morning I had never had any real intention of starting a blog. Sure, as a very recently retired member of the student journalist world I had thought about it a lot, but until this morning I had never found a topic worthy of the cause. But then, at around 10.30am (10.22am to be exact),I found myself saying those dangerous, and, let's face it, quite frankly yawn-inducing words: 'I might start a blog'.
What precipitated this sudden spiralling of events was nothing more than an early morning trip to buy the paper. Now, in Leeds, where I have just moved from, or in London, or indeed ANY CITY in the UK, such a trip would be painless. A two-minute stroll to the local newsagents made all the better for the glorious sunshine sent down to bear upon us at 10.22 this morning.
I am not in Leeds anymore though, and nor am I in London. No, however much I may wish it to be untrue, I am in fact in Rayleigh, Essex. A small town boasting a windmill, Dutch cottage, ye olde church and a place in the Domesday Book. And an unwavering passion for the Daily Mail.
Such is this passion that my simple trip to buy a paper - brought about by a beautiful dream of reading the Guardian outside in the sun, a cup of steaming hot coffee in my hand and sunglasses on my face - resulted in a one-hour trek, involving crossing borders into the next town and enduring wolf whistle upon wolf whistle from the white van men who rule the mean streets of Essex. Oh and being splattered with mud from a case of underground drilling along the way.
For while newsagents, corner shops and petrol stations in Essex are always overspilling with copies of the Daily Mail - the creation, incidentally, of one of my predecessors at a certain student newspaper - they are always Guardian-barren. Indeed, of the four shops I eventually visited in my search for the Holy Grail of newspapers, two did not stock it at all with one having the audacity to allocate not one, but THREE stands to the Mail alone. What is more all four stocked EVER OTHER NATIONAL PAPER except for the Guardian. Even the Indy and the i got substantial look ins.
If it hadn't been for my sun-drenched, garden-coffee-sunglasses-combo vision, coupled with the tantalising promise of a front page Government cover-up scandal and Brad Pitt interview, then I might have let it drop, but I instead decided that I would stop at nothing to realise my dream of holding a Guardian in my hand. It's my own fault really, I shouldn't be so stubborn.
It was as I was moaning to a friend,
"I'm just not made to be in Essex"
that it suddenly dawned on me. I now had that much-needed topic for a blog: SUBURBAN ANGST.
It was not until I arrived home at 11am, triumphantly clutching my battered copy of the Guardian only to find that we had run out of milk for coffee however, that I really began to think about giving this blogging thing a go. What better way to vent all my rage against the many trials and tribulations of small town living?
So, here we are, embarking upon a project that I hope will help to ease my summer pains and eventually help me to find some contentment amidst the turmoil of suburban life. Here's very much hoping.
(I eventually got my milk by the way, just in case you were worried.)
Over here in rural Somerset we have everything up to and including the Morning Star.. I think a Guardian-or-bust sit-in is in order at your newsagents!
ReplyDeleteHaha amazing! Maybe you should set up a rival blog called 'Rural Retreat' or something similar but instead of moaning about where you live you can brag about it instead?!
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