It is a strange habit catching on among a group of friends, who seem to be engaged in some weird game of one-upmanship. The aim of which is seeing who can move to the most peculiar part of the country. When I say bizarre and peculiar, of course what I really mean is remote and chiefly northern parts of England. I have three groups of friends who have done this so far (but am under strict orders not to mention one) and I am pretty sure that they literally tossed a coin on a map and where it landed off they went. Of course, these three all have one thing (more than one thing but, chiefly, one thing in common), which is that they have all gone into production and have a child.
Robert, for instance, literally lives on the side of a hill in deepest darkest Derbyshire ("I thought you were joking about being on the side of a hill") and, similarly, Marcus who lives at the bottom on a similar kind of hill in equally windy Yorkshire ("Robert actually got on his hill, you know"). I am never quite sure where these places are exactly, but they all have the same things in common. They are small pretty places (rural idylls, if you like) set in swirling English countryside (oh you know, think rustic rolling hills, rain, sleet and Bronte novels) and they are impossible to get to without the use of a Land Rover (OK, I'm exaggerating about the Freelander bit, but these are people who actually have a good claim to owning such a vehicle, compared with the woman trying to knock me over in Hammersmith each morning as she drives her kids around the corner to school).
When Marcus called me one day, about a year-and-a-half ago, and told me of his moving plans, I have to admit I laughed ("we're moving to Stallingwalling! It's in the country"). I think mostly I laughed because it sounds like the kind of place you make up (you know, filled with mad characters from a BBC drama) and, secondly, I laughed because the idea of moving to a place that I have never heard of was ridiculous. It's like there should at least be a rule that says you can only move to places that your friends have heard of. Unfortunately, there is no such rule, so off went Marcus to Stallingwalling in Yorkshire.
And, really, this is OK. If they want to do this and move to such unheard of places on the side of hills then, as a dedicated metropolitan urbanite, I don't have a real problem with this. It is, after all, their life and their patch of the hill. So, of course, after I finished laughing and shared the joke with friends, I wished him luck ("Hope it works out for you in Stallingwalling." "You're taking the piss." "I know, sorry.").
The thing is it doesn't stop there, because once your friends have up and left London and moved to these places, the other thing your friends do is call you and ask (beg) you to come and visit. Not particularly because they want to see you, but because they pretty much want to see anyone other than each other, day in and week out (they even admit this in a "well, we're not all that desperate to see you, but we would like to see someone" way).
But these aren't ordinary visits, like going for dinner or meeting in the pub. The visits have to be arranged months in advance and are subject to long lengthy negotiations that could rival the START II Treaty talks. These negotiations usually go something like this.
Telephone call number one:
"Hey Marcus."
"Hi, when are you coming to visit us?"
"I'm not. "
"You said you'd come at Christmas? Remember?"
"I was drunk and full of the spirit of goodwill."
"You're not serious, are you?"
"Well, sort of..."
"What about the 8th? "
"How long does it take to get there again? "
"Four/five hours, give or take.
"That's insane."
"You know what the trains are like. Now what about the 8th? "
"The 8th is fine."
"I'll check with Claire."
Telephone call number two:
"Actually the 8th is no good. What about the 15th?"
"No, can't do that, but I can do the 22nd and 29th. "
"Mmm, those are no good. We're hosting a first birthday party for 15 one-year-olds on the 22nd and the 29th is out too. Of course, you could come on the 22nd, there wouldn't be too much crying."
"Is that you or the kids? What about the 6th?"
"No, Claire's mother is down. "
"The 13th? "
"Oh, I don鈥檛 know I need to check with Claire."
Telephone call number three:
Actually, telephone call three has yet to happen, but any day now (friends in places like Stallingwalling get particularly hacked off at this time of year -- all that swirling mist and being in the middle of nowhere)...
Of course, this process will probably go on for a little while longer until we finally set a date about a month or two down the line. I know I sound like I'm complaining about this (and, well, I am, because the fact is that it is simpler and more straightforward to go to New York than it is to visit some of the stupid parts of the country friends move to).
When you do finally go and see them they protest about several things: firstly, that there is really nowhere to go (bar the popular activity of field walking -- "there's a field walkers club, we might join"); secondly, there is very little to do (the risible local outlet of the chain restaurant Pizza Express passing for top local food -- "well, the staff don't look too miserable"); and thirdly, that they never get to see anyone other than each other. To this last grumble, I really don't know what to say to sometimes (and it seems mean and uncharitable), but at other times I can not resist -- "well, duh?").
I guess the biggest question really is: why do it now? Why move ("seriously, it's called Stallingwalling") when you are still young and not quite old. It all seems premature really. Maybe the funniest thing is that some of my friends who have done it can not quite explain it either (or as Marcus put it -- "I'd like to say that it seemed like a good idea at the time, but it's all a little vague and maybe not even true").
With all that said and done, the really strangest thing is that when I talk about this phenomenon (this geographical element to the demographic shift) with friends, while we all remain kind of puzzled and unclear as to why these people have done what they have done to themselves and us, I can see it happening to me in an instant (a nightmare instance, sure). It's like some invisible force at work, snaking all around, and although moving to the middle of nowhere where you know no one and have no friends (jettisoning those friendships you spent years building up), is just about one of the last things on this earth that I could ever imagining doing... but somehow it also seems inescapable (finally a genuine paradox). I can't quite explain this, but it is something that feels incredibly true. I must have some crazed buried broody streak. Truly scary.
Anyway, back next year with a report from the last media party I'll ever go to.
PS: Stallingwalling is fictional and this column means no disrespect to the great Yorkshire. Heptonstall, however, is quite real and very windy.
The Demographic Shift is a new regular column on Brand Republic as Gordon MacMillan charts his own demographic timebomb.