For Late Adopters

Late adopters of Kate in the Countryside have observed that - for the uninitiated - such an acronym-dense landscape can sometimes be tricky to navigate. 

It is for them, and for those whose knowledge of Kate in the Countryside is not as exhaustive as they might hope, that the crib sheet below came to pass. Diligent members of the readership would be advised to print out what follows and keep it in a handy place for reference. Perhaps an opportunity to familiarise oneself with laminating machine? 

Laminated items do keep better.
Just a suggestion

Kate in the Countryside began a year ago after the demise of my Carefree University Life at Cambridge. Returning from a month at the Edinburgh Festival, I found myself unemployed in The Countryside living with MD (Mother Dearest - of whom more later). The curious folk I found there proved an excellent source of solace and fascination. So the blog was born. When someone generously gave me a job months later, the blog travelled with me to London, where I found that the oddballs of Oundle were no stranger than those of Pimlico who now populate these pages.

KITC: Acronym of the name of This Blog. Also represents Kate the character at moments of dramatic importance.

Kate in the Countryside: name of This Blog. A misnomer (as is often observed) since I am no longer domiciled in The Countryside. Knowledge for the in-crowd, that. Like Magdalene being pronounced Maudlin. 

Pimlico: where Kate in the Countryside now lives with flatmate and co-star, BOF.

BOF: Belligerently Optimistic Flatmate. Formerly Belligerently Optimistic Future-Flatmate. This sobriquet refers to a sad time a year ago when we were both yet to be homed. But BOF's unflagging - if occasionally a little manic - optimism eventually secured us The Pad. A place with no graffitied doors and good-looking neighbours thrown in.

Pretty Neighbour (PN): Apple of BOF's eye. Attempts to seduce her / convince her to come over have as yet gone unrewarded. Though we did meet her once. Recently waking up to the fact that she may not be interested in boys. Bit galling, hence KITC's silence on the subject in recent months.

Spinning: one of London's gifts to the blog. I find myself being shouted and sworn at on a bike in a small room at the local gym with more regularity than I imagined possible. Run by...

The Shouter: Australian Spinning Trainer Man. He shouts. Suspect he may be in league with PG, who first introduced me to the local Pimlico hang outs and Spinning class.

PG: Pimlico Guru. Collaborator in Spinning sessions. Resident of Pimlico. Advisor in all things local. Word on the grapevine is that she may be leaving the gym. Updates impending.

Tactful Friend (TF): Non-Pimlico resident and regular facilitator of Nights Out. I have recently realised that such evenings always lead to encounters with London's Gits, for which this blog is very grateful.

Dogface: My dog. Interestingly, this is his real name.

Mother Dearest (MD): Mother of KITC. Teacher. Resident of Oundle. Recent adopter of Twitter. Follow her in real life (@msoundle) for the full metafictional KITC experience.

DM: Daddy Mason. Not to be confused with MD, DM lives in the Bahamas where he keeps swimming pigs. This may or may not be true.

Mysterious L: Most significant external contributor to KITC. True identity a mystery. Some say she exists only within the confines of the KITC world. 

Goodbye Childhood Home (the conclusion)

Well, bye then.

This weekend was the last spent in my Childhood Home, whose impending decline was where Kate in the Countryside started last year.

When I was last at home, Dogface was doing his best to be as disconcertingly unfriendly and yappy as possible towards the couple who have bought the house, the Childhood Home Usurpers. This culminated in a notable incident where he tactically crapped in their path and fled. How things have changed. Now, when the CHU turn up (enthusiastic dog-owners themselves), treacherous Dogface starts gambolling about with enthusiasm and delight. They've even been taking him for walks apparently....

At least Childhood Home itself is not so fickle. Strapped for storage space, the CHU asked if they could keep some of their stuff in our - now empty - garage. MD agreed. Clearly unenthused, the garage retaliated in triumphant style when its roof collapsed on the boxes, moments after the CHU had moved in their things.

'Well that's never happened before,' I observed nonchalantly, brushing dust off them.

And packing is dull. The Cupboard of Terror on the top floor of the house in particular took an astonishing amount of time. I was told to extract the things I wanted from within the cavernous pit. Sifting through my childhood hoardings elicited many treasures, including: a small novelty tennis racquet wrapped in a golden cape, seven fake witches nails, half a Polly Pocket (blue), a locked briefcase with an unopenable combination and - bafflingly - three standard pound coins, stuck together to form a small tower.

Even as I boxed these items on a sunny Sunday (in the box marked 'Very Special Things': don't worry - they've been saved) with MD next door to protect me, the Cupboard of Terror seemed as terrible as ever.

Even the door I'd been sure to prop firmly open left me with no certainty that I was safe. Might it not spring shut and lock me in - as it had on that day sixteen years ago when three pals and I had thought it the perfect hiding spot? Sadly the adults (from whom we hid) didn't realise the game. They were not even looking for us and, once locked, the CoT was unopenable from within. That the four of us are still here today is a miracle of initiative and DIY.

Elsewhere, mouldy accessories from the hotel I once started in my bedroom (I was the Manager. Hapless friends were deemed 'Bellboy' or, if they were very lucky, 'Waitress'), fell stickily down from various crannies. Dogface munched the small soaps and flannels as snacks.

Later, we had an impromptu drinks party to say goodbye to the place, where MD's friends asked me whether I was sad to be leaving until I was. Then Dogface and I ran about in the garden one last time and MD drove me back to the station. 

Every memory I have from home seems to have happened in lovely sunlight or snow. To me, the mental image I have of CH looks like a Cambridge University Prospectus drawn by the Wizard of Oz.

If you remember anything from Lorne House that you want to leave at the bottom here that would be tremendous. Thanks chaps.

Next episode: The Women's Institute

Newsflash: Former Tenant on the Rampage

I've just been on the phone to BOF. That's right, this is Breaking News from Kate in the Countryside.

Today at lunchtime BOF popped back for five minutes, just to check on the coffee-machine you understand. He opens the main downstairs door into an ill-parked pram and is overwhelmed by awkwardness when the child inside squawks its dismay. This turns to near-hysterical embarrassment when he is also greeted by the bottom of a bent-over thirty-year-old woman. She is at the foot of the stairs, scrabbling through the cumulated post of our building. 

True, we have not yet managed to contrive sugar-borrowing visits to meet every single one of our neighbours, but this is decidedly not a woman known to BOF. In fact, he is fairly confident that she does not live here. 


She straightens. She is looking for post for Flat C. Interestingly, that is where we live. As awkwardness reaches fever pitch, BOF fights temptation to turn and run, realising who this single mother must be....


None other than our evicted predecessor, one Bonny Umekwe. The provider of fraudulent references. The woman against whom all of our locks were (so the estate agent told us) changed. In an astonishing fit of bravery BOF admits that we have taken Bonny's post to the estate agent, so that they could forward it to her. Our fraudulent friend swears. She is not on the best terms with our estate agent.


'Sorry,' offers BOF. Suddenly his lunchtime cappuccino seems an unnecessary extravagance. Backing out, he returns calmly to work.

Housing Crisis Over

And so, dear reader, we were housed. Galling as it was that BOF found his belligerent optimism validated, that was the only drawback in the happy conclusion to our flat-hunting woes (apart from council tax. Who knew that adopting a salary could be so expensive?).

As I pack for the newly discovered Pimlico Pad, MD occasionally comes in to see how I'm getting on, bearing impractical pans ('This paella pan will come in handy') and nearly-out-of-date packets of expensive biscuits. She seems to believe that she is equipping me against starvation with these choice items. I, in an attempt to take things in hand, start frantically compiling lists.

Told ‘Kate, don’t worry about buying things – we’ve got everything you could possibly need in the garage’, some hours later I've efficiently extracted six wineglasses, and am clingfilming part of the acre of uneaten gammon in the fridge.

‘You can’t take that, I hardly ever eat meat,’ offers MD, bafflingly.

I put it down.

‘And you can’t take those wine glasses.’

‘Really?’

‘I might need them.’

‘Did you know we've got almost a hundred others in the garage?’

‘I might have a party.’

I could not argue. Having participated in the ravages of MD’s festive party schedule, the chances of her gathering together a hundred friends (or two hundred, face it - they could probably share) at short notice no longer seems particularly unlikely.

Later, Pimlico-arrived and caffeine-enthused, I move wardrobes, then move them back. The flat's previous owner was evicted for non-payment of rent. She has left behind some slightly sinister baby-accoutrements. I feel guilty - it is Christmas after all, poor homeless single mother. But efficient unpacking assuages this surprisingly fast.

BOF appears with boxes and boxes of thing. I have been calling him every hour with instructions as to domestic necessities.  

Not just books - also furniture

He looks a bit awkward. Turns out, Parents BOF have seized the news of his departure with wanton enthusiasm and have put most of his possessions in storage. As a result, what we have instead of useful pictures and the occasional rug are … books.

Many books.
 

'Well that's … useful,' I mumble, bit disappointed. You can't hang books on walls. Neither do they make comfy sofa throws. Or good cutlery.

BOF seems to be thinking along the same lines.

'But how practical,' he riffs, optimistically, 'who needs wikipedia with this lot? And see, we can line them up along this wall and you get … instant homeliness.'

Priorities...

Into this pitiful scene walks BOF's brother Bofles. You know you're ill-equipped for life in the real world when your flatmate's younger brother starts spontaneously explaining utilities bills to you and you realise that the slightly condescending tone he's adopted is perfectly justified. The same attitude is applied towards our relentless obsessing about the coffee machine I was given for Christmas [-Thanks MD]. Apparently normal people sort out useful things like the internet before they embark on the finer points of middle-class entertaining. But damn can we make good cappuccinos. The internet can wait - we've got a pretty fine library after all.

Down and Out in London (Part 2)

... Continued from here.

In Shoreditch, even the adverts are trendy.

And so to Wandsworth, only moments away on the Overground. While our flat-hunt originally centred on trendy Shoreditch, these days we're grateful for any viewings at all, anywhere. Our one stipulation ('not Clapham') has started to look a little shortsighted, now that we're practically in Portsmouth.

Oddly we're shown a home suited to a young family with child. We have none. But the estate agent's rather good-looking and BOF is delighted ('No we're not together, no…' he comments - indicating me - when she asks if he'd like a glass of water). Katy the good-looking estate agent says that she's had offers on the place but she's holding it in case we're interested (BOF: '… because she fancies me'). 

We don't want it. She knows we don't want it. We don't want to say we don't want it, because it is so great, and it has a cellar. So we chat about the area and BOF gets her number. (From me.) So convincing is our spiel, we almost make ourselves believe we can afford it.

In Oval, we wander tentatively down the Brixton Road. There seem to be hundreds of flats advertised all over the place. Confidently, we march into an estate agent's. Fourteen people sit typing without pause. Clearly processing millions of perfect flats for us. 

Brixton: Flat Mecca?

'Hello, we're looking for a 2 bed flat, for around £300 a week in this area.'

'No.'

'Er, sorry?' (We laugh, feeling a bit awkward.)

'There's no flats available at all.'

'Nowhere in London?'

'No.'

'How about if we…?'

'There's nothing. Sorry.' (He turns away. The thirteen others eye us malevolently.)

'Perhaps if you took our details…?'

'Really?'

'Er.'

'Oh OK. We'll let you know if anything ever comes in.' (General laughter.)

BOF: 'Goody.'

Friday night sees us at another grafittied door. Inside it is lovely, if you ignore the odd stains by the toilet, and one of the beds. The couple living there are charming also, though not (of course) in charge of the rental process. 

We rue the precious flat-hunting minutes spent on small talk but leave happily, passing two frowning middle-aged women on the steps, holding notepads.

'This place couldn't be less suited to them,' we chortle, secure in our momentary, East-London-lent chic.

Outside we debated whether to call the estate agent immediately to take it. Surely impolite, we worried. It's a Friday night. These people are not bankers, they're estate agents. 

So we call early the following day. The middle-aged women have put down a deposit. They are going to live in our Shoreditch flat. The estate agent will let us know if anything changes. (But it's unlikely to.)

Homeless once more.

Down and Out in London

Fleet-footed followers of Kate in the Countryside who read last week's Censored Episode will have learnt that I've got a job in London. But finding somewhere to live in the Big + Scary City is proving problematic. Flats put up for rent on Gumtree are being taken within three hours of being posted. And not by me. I have a flatmate, a salary and a coffee machine,* but nowhere to place these articles. 

My best friend / Belligerently Optimistic Future-flatmate (BOF) had made detailed plans for flat-hunting. Clutching an A-Z (his) and meticulously typed list of potential flats (mine), we arrived twenty minutes early for our first appointment near Victoria Park, both wearing our smartest coats. As we crossed the road to get to it, a man in a van drove past. 

'Watch out you don't get stabbed in there,' he called gaily. 

We stepped over half a bike and a pile of vomit and climbed the stairs inside.

'My brother's knocking this place down after Christmas, falling apart a bit,' said a man called Jim who was showing us round. 'It'll be great when it's all been redone again though, he's going to make a mint.'

Trendy...

I had never been inside a crack den before. 

BOF looked around dispiritedly. He finds flattery the best and easiest form of small talk and I could tell that even he was struggling here. 

'Windowsill's a bit rotten,' pointed out Jim, looking uncomfortable.

'Er yes. Um … (pacing around) Gosh … what a great kitchen,' BOF ventured helpfully. 

Worried that his fear of offending Jim would extend to his placing a deposit on the den, I suggested we leave, unfortunately forgetting to avoid the vomit on the way out.

But not to worry, an appointment in Canada Water came next. 

It had started to rain fairly persistently. At this, BOF explained that he'd read that drizzle was the perfect weather for viewing flats - 'Means you get a realistic impression of the place Kate.'

There are only two reasons you'd be in Canada Water: if you were trying out the shiny new East London line (it is rather good) and got out on a whim, or if you already live there, having failed to see the place before putting down a deposit. The best thing I can say for our visit is that it prevented such an error.

Canada Water Station:
making up for something?

Fred the estate agent had generously offered to drive us to the flat, so we met him at the shiny station. Racing out, he fled to his car as we struggled to keep up. Head jutted forward, Fred didn't stride, but instead took the car park with a series of rapid tiny steps, like a chunky little ballet dancer. 

'I've been told I walk quite fast,' he observed.

His pace is the pace of a man trying to rent out flats in Canada Water. It is a suburban desert, broken up only by the occasional zebra crossing and small, crying child. The house - with its hanging wires and collapsed sofas - added to the brutally lonely feel.

'Great to have some outside space,' enthused BOF. 

When we told Fred we'd walk back to the station he looked defeated. We would see the area after all.

To be continued…

*NOTE: The coffee machine is actually imaginary at this point. But I know exactly which one I want.