They met at a friend of a friend‘s party.
She was attractive enough,
he earned a packet, so they married.
An almost idyllic relationship.
She didn’t enjoy sex,
and he wasn’t bothered.
They still had two kids,
just for her parent’s sake,
it was the done thing, after all.

His weekends spent on the golf course,
she threw parties for her mates.
He worked in the city.
She took classes.
Life seemed enviable. But
the one thing she had always wanted,
was a cottage in the country,
with roses around the door.

She argued that the kids would love it,
he told her it wasn’t practical.
“In any case, you’d be bored in a week
with the lack of a hairdresser,
and the stink of cow shit”
The sulks and cold shoulder
eventually won him over.

So they moved to Devon.
A nice place, small, but
just as she had imagined,
with roses around the door.
Not too far from Plymouth station,
he commuted. Weeks away at a time.
Luckily there was a tidy little golf club
just down valley, for when he was back,
soon got his feet under the bar.
She tended her roses, content.

They were happy for a while
She got involved in village life
WI, pottery classes,
church fetes, Am dram.
The pub was good,
though not really gastro,
they got funny looks
there on occasion.

The winters were the worse.
Rain for weeks on end
Kids underfoot,
or coming home covered
in brown clay, or worse.
The school run always nightmare,
from autumn onward the roads flooded,
slurry inches deep, ruined her Audi.

Less to do, fewer people
about these days.
The village life tapered off.
She took to an affair with a guy
who kept chickens, ugly rude pigs,
and other assorted beasts.
Her Heathcliffe.
He husband, she knew,
was screwing his secretary.
Something of a cliché, but it kept him
happy to be in London,
earning good money.
She still didn’t enjoy sex,
and he still wasn’t bothered.
So sex and affairs
petered out eventually.
No great loss.

The worse thing was when upcountry,
“London actually”, friends visited
Talk of the shows, the gigs,
the coke and parties
Embarrassing them by
getting pissed in the pub,
and insulting the oafish locals.
Blocking the lane
with new Range rovers and Mercs.

Calling the house, “sweet and chocolate box”,
and “Oh we’d love a place like this,
but Nigel’s job you know, forever off overseas.”
Inevitably complaining about the damp
and the drains stink, and the rain.
Unbelieving of the hardships,
unwilling to compromise,
“Where on earth is your nearest Deli darling!”
“What the hell do you do for fun around here?”

The village emptied outside of summer.
The church closed, the WI folded,
Too few for the annual panto.
Too many pots already.
When the kids left home for Uni,
and the walls echoed
to nothing but shoddy slippers,
radio 4, and the bloody weather.
Her husband away for days at a time,
the bins filled with empties too fast
she didn’t go out, and the walls closed her in.

They sold up in the end,
charming couple from Kensington,
“Just a little pied-à-terre for friends
and fun weekends away.
We love the roses around the door”
Been there, seen that, got the t-shirt darling.
They bought a flat in Lewisham,
And a timeshare lodge in Cornwall,
just for old times’ sake.

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