Hailing as I do from Boscastle (Britain's muddiest village TM) all things Cornish are matters close to the heart of Coastalblog. Namely the county's marginalisation, poverty and the rest of the country's complete ignorance of same (I've lost count of the amount of times people have wonderingly asked me what I'm doing here upcountry and I've had to patiently explain the systematic destruction of all of cornwall's primary industries, the galloping inflation of its houseprices due to half of them being bought as second homes by fucking stockbrokers and the concomitant grievous damage to Cornwall's economy. And the fact that the unemployment level is the highest in the country). So here's my chance to give something back by asking my paltry handful of readers (ah, but it's the quality that counts) to vote for the Cornish Prayer Book Rebellion, Cornwall's last gasp grab to retain some cultural independence in the Guardian's Radical Restoration poll, and give my countrymen something to shout about. Ta.
I appear to have moved into the pub. Now, I don't wish to give the impression that this has come as a complete surprise to me, we'be been planning to do so since shortly after I bought it, but still, it's sort of snuck up on me and now I'm waking up and thinking what happened? How come I'm here? The reason for this discombobulation is that this move was initially a temporary measure. Mrs Coastalblog had some relatives coming to stay, and it made sense to put them up in our house while we decamped to the flat. It's still a work in progress, but a mad week of cleaning and carting stuff around made it habitable. I had a suspicion that once we were in we'd be back and forth for a few weeks. As with many of my hunches, I was completely and utterly wrong. As it turned out, once we were here, we were here. Things moved at pace and, now our kitchen appliances have been installed, there's no going back, the old house is unusable. It's left me with slightly mi
Comments
Post a Comment