So, Scotland kicked my arse. 6 months of unrelenting bad luck and things breaking. Failed starter motor, flat tyre on the 125, mice in the 2CV air box, rats eating the Lomax seat, broken door on the Dandy…crowning glory was an MOT fail for the Lomax thanks to a cracked chassis.
So I got to do almost none of the things I moved to Scotland for – no tours of the Highlands, no Highland games, no rallies, no classic car shows, no fun. I went to work, I sat in a room and wrote stuff, no-one talked to me, I went home, sat in a room in the forest with Shakey with no phone signal. He’s not much of a conversationalist, unless he’s singing for his dinner. I slowly lost the power of speech.
Unlike the barbarians, I know when I have been conquered. So I have turned tail and come back to England, to a job less than a mile from the one I left. But I have no house, I sold it when I moved north. And now I can’t afford to buy in the same postcode, because the market has risen but my capital has shrunk. And most of my stuff is in a container in Fife.
I feel like a fool. I really thought I was going home, and going to an amazing job. Neither turned out to be true.
I once judged a man whom I was dating for living in a shared house. What had gone wrong in his life that he was an hour late for a date because he had to wait for the shower? Well, now I know. You take a series of decisions, each of which seem like a good idea, but which lead you further and further up the cliff, until, like a crag-bound sheep, you’re stuck and can no longer move forward or back.
There were some good things. I saw more of some special friends. And I bought a sidecar. I was just getting the hang of it but now it is in storage in the Northern Rest Home for Distressed Machinery and I am a very long way south.
I live in a spare room. I try to be grateful. It could be worse.