OPINION - I fled London for peace but found my inner slob — now I’m back, smarter and calmer

“Ok, but I’m not going to everybody’s bloody birthday and everybody’s bloody brunch,” I huffed, my begrudging condition on agreeing to move back to London after five years in the wilds of rural Somerset. “And it’s only for a year, while we figure out our next move.”

Then, four days after being back: “I’m so glad we’re here! Let’s make this permanent!” It helped that I’d not had a single invite to a birthday or brunch.

We’d moved to Somerset in December 2020, after saying in May of that year, “Wouldn’t it be nice to have a bit of peace and space?” It was a common reaction to suddenly working from home, when the strains of lockdown included not only global uncertainty but the neighbours’ Duolingo triumphs and Zoom family quizzes floating over garden fences.

After 15 years in London, I’d already been tiring of the treadmill: gym, office, out, meal prep, bed, repeat. And then there were the birthdays and brunches, an endless rota of social obligations that I could never quite find a convincing way to get out of. I wanted a calmer life. And, gloriously, I got one.

Life became as insular and simple as I’d wanted

I quickly settled into Somerset’s rhythm: dog walk, video call, dog walk, dinner, television. Occasionally, for variety, a different dog walk. The nearest decent restaurant was half an hour away in Glastonbury, so we rarely went out. We made friends in our village, meeting occasionally at the nearest pub, a 10-minute drive from home. Life became as insular and simple as I’d wanted.

But somewhere along the way, without noticing, I started to lose my sense of self, retreating inwards. There was always another box set. And, conveniently, London was three hours away, which was an excellent excuse not to attend any of those brunches.

A sheep’s life

Then there was the house. We’d bought somewhere considerably bigger than we needed with a one-acre orchard because I’d got into Gardeners’ World during Lockdown One and mistaken watching Monty Don for possessing horticultural ability. I soon discovered that gardening is just housework, but outdoors. I had no aptitude for it. The kale I optimistically planted went to seed almost as quickly as I did. Consumed by renovations, housekeeping and my day job, I rarely changed out of my tracksuit bottoms. No one could see them on Zoom and the local sheep didn’t seem to mind.

I had more space, more time and considerably fewer reasons to put on trousers

Slowly, my standards slipped. I stopped paying for decent haircuts, working out and having Botox. I had entered a sort of sheep-approved level of grooming. My wardrobe became increasingly governed by the question: “Will anyone actually see me?” The answer was usually no. And, for a while, this felt wonderful. I had escaped the treadmill. I had more space, more time and considerably fewer reasons to put on trousers.

But somewhere between the dog walks and the box sets, I realised that I was becoming a slob. And the annoying thing was, I quite liked it. Which made moving back to London rather more complicated than simply returning to the city I’d once been desperate to leave. We were unexpectedly offered a price we couldn’t refuse on the house we were still doing up by a woman who’d always loved its exterior, and so quickly packed up our things. I was keen to stay down there but we couldn’t find a home to rent and, well, London would be more convenient for a short time now that work in the summer of 2025 was back to being IRL. We’d return cautiously and house hunt in Somerset from there.

London through fresh eyes

Except the Waterloo we left was very different from Waterloo now, where we’d found a rental four streets away from my old flat. Elephant and Castle had rebranded as Elephant Park — it now had a Gail’s, for crying out loud — and on our second night we strolled down for jerk chicken and ice cream. People were shiny. The energy was vibrant. I’d actually done my hair and worn real clothes. I felt like a human in a way I hadn’t realised I hadn’t been feeling for most of my time away.

The next evening we got £25 tickets to see Rosamund Pike bring the house down in Inter Alia at the National Theatre, again a short walk from home. Seeing London afresh, actually making the most of what it had to offer, was as enlivening as a table back at my favourite restaurant, Jikoni, after years of dinners on a tray in front of the TV.

Sure, it’s changed, as have I. I’m calmer, and my social life is too. Brunches have been swapped for reading books at home. But. But! I can Santander Cycle to Covent Garden in 10 minutes when I need a Crust Bros pizza, a Floozie cookie or some products from The Ordinary. And I have a Sainsbury’s Local I can walk to. Never underestimate the joy of discovering you’ve run out of coriander and being able to rectify the situation without turning it into an expedition (my nearest supermarket in Somerset was a 25-minute drive each way).

It turns out I didn’t need to leave London to find a quieter life. I just needed to come back to it on my own terms. I still don’t want to go to everybody’s bloody birthday or everybody’s bloody brunch. But now, if I do, I can cycle home afterwards.