across the street; and the second thing we discovered was that Sally and the kids could get to their college and schools with half the hassle and in half the time they were used to in London; and the third thing we discovered was that people were still civil to each other outside London, that shop assistants said “lovely” when you gave them the right change, and that taxi-drivers looked pleasantly surprised when you tipped them, and that the workmen who came to repair your washing-machine or decorate your house or repair your roof were courteous and efficient and reliable. The superior quality of life in Britain outside London was still a well-kept secret in those days, and Sally and I could hardly contain our mirth at the thought of all our friends back in the capital pitying us as they sat in their traffic jams or hung from straps in crowded commuter trains or tried in vain to get a plumber to answer the phone at the weekend. Our luck changed in more ways than one with the move to Rummidge. Who knows whether The People Next Door would have ever seen the light of studio if I hadn’t met Ollie Silver at a civic reception Sally had been invited to, just when Heartland were looking for a new idea for a sitcom...
When Jane and Adam left home to go to University we moved out to Hollywell, a semi-rural suburb on the southern outskirts of the city — the stockbroker belt I suppose it would be called in the South-East, only stockbrokers are rather thin on the ground in the Midlands. Our neighbours are mostly senior managers in industry, or accountants, doctors and lawyers. The houses are all modern detached, in different styles, set well back from the road and bristling with burglar alarms. It’s green and leafy and quiet. On a weekday the loudest noise is the whine of the milk float delivering semi-skimmed milk and organic yoghurt and free-range eggs door-to-door. At the weekend you sometimes hear the hollow clop of ponies’ hoofs or the rasp of Range-Rover tyres on the tarmac. The Country Club, with its eighteen-hole golf course, tennis courts, indoor and outdoor pools and spa, is just ten minutes away. That’s the main reason we moved to Hollywell — that and the fact that it’s conveniently close to Rummidge Expo station.
The station was built fairly recently to serve the International Exhibition Centre and the Airport. It’s all very modern and hi-tech, apart from the main Gents. For some reason they seem to have lovingly reconstructed a vintage British Rail loo in the heart of all the marble and glass and chromium plate, complete with pee-up-against-the-wall zinc urinals, chipped white tiles, and even a rich pong of blocked drains. Apart from that, it’s a great improvement on the City Centre station, and is twelve minutes nearer London for me. Because, of course, if you’re in any branch of show business, you can’t keep away from London entirely. Heartland record in their Rummidge studios as a condition of their franchise — bringing employment to the region and all that — but they have offices in London and rehearse most of their shows there because that’s where most actors and directors live. So I’m always up and down to Euston on good old BR. I bought the flat three years ago, partly as an investment (though property prices have fallen since) but mainly to save myself the fatigue of a return journey in one day, or the alternative hassle of checking in and out of hotels. I suppose at the back of my mind also was the thought that it would be a private place to meet Amy.
Lately I’ve come to value the privacy, the anonymity of the place even more. Nobody on the pavement knows I’m up here in my cosy, centrally-heated, double-glazed eyrie. And if I go down into the street to get a newspaper or pick up a pint of milk from the 24-hour Asian grocery store on the corner, and mingle with the tourists and the bums and the young runaways and the kids up from the suburbs for an evening out and the office
When Jane and Adam left home to go to University we moved out to Hollywell, a semi-rural suburb on the southern outskirts of the city — the stockbroker belt I suppose it would be called in the South-East, only stockbrokers are rather thin on the ground in the Midlands. Our neighbours are mostly senior managers in industry, or accountants, doctors and lawyers. The houses are all modern detached, in different styles, set well back from the road and bristling with burglar alarms. It’s green and leafy and quiet. On a weekday the loudest noise is the whine of the milk float delivering semi-skimmed milk and organic yoghurt and free-range eggs door-to-door. At the weekend you sometimes hear the hollow clop of ponies’ hoofs or the rasp of Range-Rover tyres on the tarmac. The Country Club, with its eighteen-hole golf course, tennis courts, indoor and outdoor pools and spa, is just ten minutes away. That’s the main reason we moved to Hollywell — that and the fact that it’s conveniently close to Rummidge Expo station.
The station was built fairly recently to serve the International Exhibition Centre and the Airport. It’s all very modern and hi-tech, apart from the main Gents. For some reason they seem to have lovingly reconstructed a vintage British Rail loo in the heart of all the marble and glass and chromium plate, complete with pee-up-against-the-wall zinc urinals, chipped white tiles, and even a rich pong of blocked drains. Apart from that, it’s a great improvement on the City Centre station, and is twelve minutes nearer London for me. Because, of course, if you’re in any branch of show business, you can’t keep away from London entirely. Heartland record in their Rummidge studios as a condition of their franchise — bringing employment to the region and all that — but they have offices in London and rehearse most of their shows there because that’s where most actors and directors live. So I’m always up and down to Euston on good old BR. I bought the flat three years ago, partly as an investment (though property prices have fallen since) but mainly to save myself the fatigue of a return journey in one day, or the alternative hassle of checking in and out of hotels. I suppose at the back of my mind also was the thought that it would be a private place to meet Amy.
Lately I’ve come to value the privacy, the anonymity of the place even more. Nobody on the pavement knows I’m up here in my cosy, centrally-heated, double-glazed eyrie. And if I go down into the street to get a newspaper or pick up a pint of milk from the 24-hour Asian grocery store on the corner, and mingle with the tourists and the bums and the young runaways and the kids up from the suburbs for an evening out and the office
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