I just passed Gatwick airport on the train down to Brighton.
I am always mesmerized by the people who get on the train and head south, away from London and all the people that I can read and understand.
The people heading south dress in sturdier clothing — more natural in deep green colors and built for things like carrying wood over muddy roads. They have tousled hair and rambunctious children who don’t yet know how to behave around order.
They — I imagine — spend more time in their homes, which are decorated with a sign that says home and wreaths made with pinecones, handmade by their neighbour and sold to them at a charity christmas market.
They’ll go back to their homes and turn on the TV and make a dinner out of ingredients that already have in their homes.
I used to be like these people and may well be one of them again. Part of me feels ashamed to value the perceived importance and superiority of all of the nice things that I can find in London. I’m jealous of their belief that London is too big and that it’s not as trendy but it’ll do in Haywards Heath and their ability to get paid for something other than staring at a computer screen and clicking and pressing and scrunching their nose and doing it all over again.
I want to make money by making things and getting dirty so that I don’t have to work out in a work out zone — like these people who can move slowly with their free time, read cookbooks and go on walks by the coast with their dogs and their children whose names they often mix up. They probably don’t have as much money or as much free time as I do, but they don’t need it because their work is their life and their gym and their joy and their clothes are for all of this and their children are invited to always take part.