Are you Local?

katydating, smiling, Suffolk9 Comments

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I went to a leaving party last night. A close friend of mine is moving to the country. It was not a decision she took lightly especially after breaking the news to various urban dwelling family members who tried to put her off by telling her that men of an eligible age and disposition were few and far between and that the countryside had little to offer save the odd weekend away beach walking in Orford, gift buying at Snape Maltings and oyster eating in Aldeburgh. And all you need to bring are your Hunters, a 4×4 and small precocious child called Oscar, it’s perfect! But to live darling? I hardly think so.

Despite this she decided to go for it and is relocating. I asked her why and she told me a number of things had prompted the move – the desire for a scaled down lifestyle, the fact that they now sell Mulberry in Southwold and a man. But of course, what inspirational story of rural relocation would be complete without a straw chewing, Ale drinking love interest, a hunka hunka burning East Anglian love.

On a trip to the country a year or so ago she fell for the down to earth charms of a local man. (A LOCAL man, he was local, very local) Apparently a bizarre thing happened, and city girls please remain seated this may come as a shock – they met in a pub, he smiled, came over, sat down and started chatting. He liked her she liked him end of story (on top of which he had a prize winning marrow but that’s for another day) Why how very strange, no games, no bullshit, no multiple online dating a girl from every borough. Most suspect indeed, I always had my doubts about these strange country folk.

It must be said although there is a great deal I dislike about the capital, traffic wardens, filth, the Elephant and Castle, but there is also a fair amount I enjoy – fantastic bars and restaurants, bars and hmm.. bars and most notably the amount of sexy men scattered liberally about the place, but according to said friend this means little and although the selection may not be as varied or indeed plentiful in a field the choice cuts that do remain certainly are worth a national express coach ride. The main difference between country boys and city dwellers she says is simple – they talk to you.
This revelation got me thinking, what happened to communication? The last woman that started talking to strangers on a bus got 2 million You Tube hits and a double spread in the Daily Mail, OK she was pissed off her head and about to be jumped on by half of Croydon for spouting racist abuse but still my point is this, we’ve all stopped talking.
 Wouldn’t life be easier if you could go up to a man in the street, stop him and say ‘Hi sorry for interrupting but I quite fancy you, want to go for a drink sometime?’ without him calling the environmental health unit to come and cart you off in a straight jacket.

Inspired by her happy ending I thought, for the sake of experiment, I would give it a go and I did something most out of character. I smiled at a fellow jogged this morning on my bi-annual jog around regents park outer circle. Why anyone would have thought I’d come at him naked with a carving knife the look of confusion on his face.

A smile? A SMILE? What a brazen hussy from yonder parts, smile at me as I’m running!? Be gone with you happy, friendly runner in your shiny white snickers and big happy face! Back to those muddy fields full of orgy loving jam-making yokels!

No doubt he concluded I was either mentally ill or from Norwich.
And he would be partially right; I was trying out a strange and unfamiliar thing on a poor, vulnerable city stranger. I was being nice for no reason.
This sadly may well be the distinction between city and country, not the amount of apple cider on sale, the quantity of parking tickets received or the availability of ‘big fancy shops full of those people’ but the ease in which people say hello.
I won’t be smiling again anytime soon to total strangers in the street and for fear of being sectioned at Barnet mental institution and will try to avoid eye contact unless totally essential. But it’s a pity, and if any single girls are thinking of moving to pastures new, jumping into a random place in the middle of nowhere where there’s bugger all to do except eat pasties, organize village fundraisers and fuck each other, then good luck to you. They boys you find may not know their Gucci from their Gaultier but man can they kill you with a smile….. And that’s got to be worth a move.
katyAre you Local?

9 Comments on “Are you Local?”

  1. MissGreenEyes

    I’ve lived in the country for the majority of my adult life – and you are 100% right. We do eat pasties, organise fundraisers, and fuck each other (not the whole village, just a one-man-situation). All good clean fun (except the pasties, fattening little fuckers). BUT – for every friendly local who comes up to chat to you, there are another seven huddled in a corner whispering about you and who you could possibly be related to in the village, why you’re there, who you’re shagging, how you met them, when you met them, where you met them, why you’re there now… etc….

    Double-edged sword, this country life :) x

  2. Katy

    Yes, i’ve heard that too…bloody hell, i wouldn’t last 10 minutes in that case! well done for sticking it out for so long, must be all that… pastry eating ; )

  3. ihavemostlybeen

    Whilst the whole “Slaughtered Lamb” scenario does exist the major benefit of being in the Country is the number of single men, there are a raft of dating agencies set up to find men something to have sex with that doesn’t baa. A word of advice, go for sons of arable farmers they are the ones with money so have good teeth and as a rule don’t smell of shit. And if you think farmers are broke just google the price of a Claas combine harvester.

  4. Max from Cambridge

    I bought a house in rural France 10 yrs ago and it is the norm to say Bonjour (French for hello or Good day) to everybody as you stroll to the patisserie (bakers). However as most are old crones with more facial hair than David Bellamy chances of scoring are pretty thin.

    In Cambridge though, a small rural village north of LONDON, I have found that my smile get’s me laid plenty! ;)

  5. blondiemcfabulous

    I’m going to move to Yorkshire and marry a farmer. Aside from the fact the accent floors me every single time, Yorkshire boys always have that look in their eye that says, ‘I’m going to take you away and do despicable things to you.’

    PLUS being a farmer’s wife is an instant free pass to get a little plump and ‘wholesome’ looking.

    PLUS the countryside there is so vast and beautiful there is many an opportunity for a little al fresco romp without anyone seeing.

    I’m off to pack my bag now…..

  6. ihavemostlybeen

    Katy I hope you don’t mind me responding to Blondie here? Blondie, I implore you, think again. The only despicable thing any boy from Yorkshire is going to do to you is to sit on his hands whilst you get the first, next & last round in, pay for dinner, sort out the mortgage and cover his car loan. Looking for a Scot with the generosity squeezed out of him? Date a Yorkshireman. And as a photographer – where there is a vast area of countryside there’s always someone with a super long lens, be warned. *all of the above does not relate in anyway, shape or form to my friends, neighbours and colleagues here in Yorkshire. Ahem.

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