As tomorrow is mother's day I find myself again in the wide open spaces of the Cambridgeshire Fens, a flat landscape dotted with sinewy trees, still bare from the what seems the never-ending winter.
I drove up on Thursday evening. Snaking through the London suburbs I was glad to shrug off normal life for a few days of fresh air and replenishment. However this feeling of ease didn't last very long. It began to ebb away when, parking at a service station in Essex (desperate need for a pee) I was greeted by three parked cars opposite mine, all of which were occupied by rotund people of a certain age wearing vacant expressions – said expressions pointed at me, gazing as I exited my car following my every move. I could be perfectly rational and conclude that the occupants were in their cars for warmth on a chilly evening, humbly finishing off their oversized confectionery. However, this being Essex I decided that this, the Holiday Inn carpark at Bishop's Stortford was clearly a dogging hotspot.
Safely inside the building I hear Michael Jackson's 'Wanna be Startin Something' on the radio and my mood lightening, I decide to purchase a coffee (and get the hell out of there). Now, a true sign that portions are gettting larger is when I rest my coffee cup on the cup-holder of my ten year old car only to discover that it will not fit. I settle the coffee somewhat precariously in front of the gear stick and I switch on radio 1. It is at this point that all recollection of my coffee purchase (and any remaining sense) leaves my head - I am in Essex after all, and I speed off, head banging and hand tapping back onto the motorway. It is only when I smell the sickly sweet latte rising from my passenger seat floor that I remember how delicately my cup had been positioned between gear stick and dashboard – what a dickhead I am. Much general swearing and high-pitched screaming over, I resolve only to laugh at my ridiculous misfortune, that is until I remember I am driving on a motorway and should probably pay more attention.
Contrary to the popular city dweller image of the countryside as being an idyll of tranquil trickling water, rabbits skipping arm in arm with beavers and geese gossiping down the lane, I can relate that it is in fact a sinister and treacherous place full of carniverous predators, decapitating farm machinery and strange locals that cycle in straw hats. Yesterday evening I took a stroll down the lane enjoying the longer evenings and less hostile weather when I turned a bend and suddenly found myself face to face with two large dogs (in the country dogs don't sit indoors, they roam outside waiting for another person to maim). The general expression of mania in the dogs' eyes convinced me to quicken my pace in the opposite direction, taking care not to plunge head first into a ditch on the way. Once back safely inside, panting, hair in disarray, expression of shock, I take to the nearest armchair and quietly recover my calm (mother keeps the gin with the potatoes)
Gin having barely parted my lips and we hear a loud rapping noise on the front door. Confused expressions exchanged between mother and me, (who knocks at the door in the country in the pitch black night?) well my intimate knowledge of any horror film told me that it could only be an axe-wiedling murderer quietly lurking in the near darkness. We decide to ignore the knocks, but they pursist. We then realise the knocks (and doorbell ringing) is coming from the back door- an entrance with a direct view into the living room where we sat ears perked. Before I could shout to mother 'where's the gun' a loud tapping and what I perceived as a slow rasping noise came from the window directly beside me (my imagination can occasionally cloud my recollection of events so if this all appears a bit fantastical to you, it most probably is near complete make-believe). My mother now thoroughly annoyed that someone would disturb the One Show jumps up and marches to the back door, me in hot pursuit, to find a large bald man darkening the doorway. In a panicked voice he asks if we have scrap metal, we say we don't (despite the rusting farm equipment in the field beside the house). Irritated my mother slams the door and we sit quietly contemplating the strange event and the general strangeness of Fen folk.
As I return to London tomorrow evening I will probably be more tense than before I left, will no doubt have recurring anxiety stemming from the events that befell me whilst in the country and will have to most probably take a leave of absence, bury myself in the city streets and recuperate my now tender strength via a spot of retail therapy and sublime cooking. I always breathe a sigh of relief when I turn the corner on that motorway and see on the horizon the glass towers of central London because it is where I feel safest – far from hairpin bends, drooling locals and murderous combines...
