London vs countryside? Two Gen Ys on lockdown in and out of the capital

Locked down in London or chilling at casa del parents?  Katie Strick and Samuel Fishwick state their case
Samuel Fishwick in London
Samuel Fishwick/Katie Strick

We’re three weeks away from pub gardens ­re­opening and the question plaguing millennial WhatsApp groups is: when are you going back?

Those who fled for casa del parents are — slowly — returning to the capital, lured back by FOMO and fresh with wholesome tales from the countryside.

Those who’ve braved it out in London say we’ve missed you, but we’re bored of barbecues now. Plus London was nicer with fewer runners in the park.

So which home was sweeter? Our writers present a case from both sides.

The city escapist: Katie Strick

Six months (or was it a lifetime?) ago, my mother announced she was taking my childhood desk to the charity shop. It’s a happy twist-of-fate that she never got round to it. Little did either of us know that weeks later I’d be moving home for an extended summer holiday, but when lockdown was announced in March, I knew where I’d be spending it. My flatmates were away and I’m bad enough at a morning home alone, let alone weeks, so I fled the Big Smoke for leafy Hampshire and did what I’d prided myself on avoiding since graduation: I moved back in with the parents.

Like most people privileged enough to have a family home to retreat to, the last nine weeks have felt like a strange throwback to study leave. My sister and I have dug out the toastie-maker we lived off during revision; my parents ask about deadlines over dinner; my schoolmates stop by to coax me out on walks. Talk of brunch spots and Tube delays have been replaced with farm shops and Strava segments.

Apparently I’m turning into my parents at home, too: within the family, there’s been a strange kind of role reversal. “It’s like a hotel!” my mother rejoices as I call my parents to dinner and tell them it’s rude to be on their phones at the table. They binged Normal People past midnight last week (I went to bed at nine) and it seems every day is a lie-in now they no longer commute.

Of course, there are frustrations with moving to the countryside. The NHS clap is a lot quieter when houses are more than two metres apart; you can’t swing by the pub for a walktail; and popping to the shops under London’s great cover of anonymity is impossible. Apparently half my mother’s book club has moved into Lidl for lockdown.

Why is it, then, I feel abandoned every time a friend reveals they’re moving back to London? One says he’s “checking on the flat”; another misses her boyfriend; a third is doing day trips to “wean” her mum off having her at home. “Haven’t been able to get to my phone all weekend,” she texted an apology for missing our call last week. “Mum’s like a koala.”

The friends who’ve stayed put aren’t helping. “Sorry, back-to-back picnics,” they apologise for missing my Zoom. “It’s like a festival!” they write next to photos of Battersea Park. In normal times, I’m the first person to fall victim to the FOMO machine, so why am I so non-fussed about going back?

The top-floor flat is the biggest turn-off. Funnily enough, you don’t crave the gym when you can work out in a big garden, and it’s hard to miss Pret when there’s free food on the table. In fact, my Monzo account has never looked healthier. If I stay here long enough, maybe I’ll be able to afford the kind of garden that would lure me back to London — if my parents let go long enough for me to leave.

The London lockdowner: Samuel Fishwick

It seems funny now to think that people invoked the idea of London’s Blitz spirit at the start of lockdown, but as supermarket shelves emptied overnight we did wonder what we were bracing for in the city.

Days before, when rumours of closures were still just small talk at the pub, a friend of mine idly worried when we’d be able to get together. It occurs to me that I haven’t seen him in 11 weeks. The idea of getting out of the city seemed fun to imagine, but we didn’t have the means and, besides, it felt like surrender.

We had a gung-ho attitude. I staggered home from an antiques shop with a second-hand desk so that my partner and I could set up separate workspaces in the bedroom and kitchen, but raised a quizzical eyebrow at anyone wearing a mask.

Then panic moved into the neighbourhood. For a few weeks, being in London felt lonely and uncanny, like walking around a mistranslation. Shops closed. The streets were quiet, except at supermarkets, from which queues snaked angrily for miles. Our upstairs neighbours (who we didn’t really know) texted to say they were self-isolating. We spoke to our downstairs neighbours (who we know well) over the fence on chairs, and at a distance. Tesco delivery vans trundled down the roads like military trucks. We live near King’s College Hospital, and the sounds of sirens amplified and multiplied every day. Policemen patrolled parks officiously. I felt a creeping hostility to anyone I saw IRL, sidestepping them as if bouncing off a forcefield.

But we soon softened. I feel happier living in London than I’ve ever been. It’s friendlier. This isn’t a war and Londoners certainly aren’t combatants. I’ve learned the names of most neighbours, and pause to greet and catch up in a way I’ve always lacked the rhythm for. Loved ones are a pretty comprehensive replacement for colleagues, and I’ve loved the time with them (especially Hiccup the cat).

It has, in small ways, felt like holidaying in another London. I wouldn’t come again, but I’m certainly glad I visited.

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