Epsom Girl

Have you ever felt like walking out? Escaping your own life? I have, numerous times, and I've tried. Plotting to give the whole lot up - resigning from my job and relocating, or failing that losing myself in a book or daydreaming. My head screaming: “I want a different life! A different home town and profession!” I want the reverse of the Cheers theme tune - where nobody knows your name - and be unrecognisable. To not get stopped in the street or bump into new or old acquaintances. I play this game of love-hate with it. Sometimes I don't want to converse or be distracted, but other times I do, enjoying these spontaneous tête-a-têtes outside local shops or inside supermarkets. Living and working locally has meant I've formed a link to more and more people. I never forget a face, (occasionally a name), and neither does it seem I have a face that's easily forgotten.

I'm the Epsom face that never changes. People may come and go, but I'll still be here; my face and physique unaltered. I should be flattered by this recognition, so why aren't I? Because I've yet to accept this is where I'm meant to be, for eternity. But deep down I know it, and even deeper down I'm content with it. The perfectionist in me says this is a failing: 'You're missing out, you have no ties, challenge yourself, start again somewhere else – leave!' Gripped in fight or flight and depression I listen. This is the rescue I need from myself, this will help me, and so begins research...

I can list the places I've looked, believing them to be better: Wimbledon, Guildford, Woking, Bournemouth, Littlehampton, Worthing, Bognor Regis, and Chichester. Every year, the search gets further... These dreams of a new life are never brought to fruition because each time I wake up and realise what I've got. The familiar. Family 10 minutes away, the rumbles of trains and the chimes of the clock tower. London and the countryside on my doorstep. Nostalgia. If I lived anywhere else, I'd miss it. Epsom is a part of me as much as I'm part of its history.

Is the grass always greener? I realise it's not and yet occasionally I hanker after it. When the monotony of everyday life stifles me, I plan my move. I imagine standing on the top of a hill like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music, skipping through a new cobbled town with nuns and children behind me. The world will feel alive and music will accompany me. I will be the pied piper. Is this just a fantasy or could I make this real? At these times, I choose to believe the latter. This will be my nirvana. Then the bubble bursts, the circuit is complete again. I'm not a mover or a shaker, I'm a stayer. Why is this seen as a weakness? Is it because under-40s have not been taught how to be satisfied? We think we have to, or at least try, to have it all.

I flew the nest, I just didn't fly very far. It's a documented fact that I've never been able to. My wings clipped to short distances, well within my comfort zone. My flight path mapped out clearly spells E.P.S.O.M. A map I continue to add to as I explore its niches, finding new streets and businesses. They say familiarity breeds contempt, but familiarity is also home.

Qué?

With the opening ceremony one day away, my thoughts have turned Olympic. The torch relay skirted the borders of Epsom last week, passed through neighbouring towns and villages: Guildford, Leatherhead, and Reigate. Epsom and Ewell notably absent from its scheduled route, so I boycotted it. Did I want to see the flame held aloft? A torchbearer's jog, slow-motion running? No, it wouldn't have raised a flicker of interest, I'd walk straight past it. The route just another farce, to be added to G4S and public transport. I'm enjoying these digs: bus drivers getting lost, security staff failing to show up, the military called in to check the ticketing and sandwich rationing. I celebrate the 2012 Olympics for its Fawlty Towersness - for being reassuringly British.

I remember the moment London won the bid; huddled round a TV screen, slaps on the back, loud cheers, and whoops of joy from my work colleagues. Seven years ago, I said the outcome would be this, but my prediction then is now only semi-gratifying. Chaotic project management is what we do and we do it well. The build-up reads just like a Fawlty Towers plot: misunderstandings, cross-purposes, meetings missed, and accidental occurrences, and like this fictional hotel, Britain is filled with demanding, tense, and put-upon eccentric residents. We've written our own Fawlty Towers script for the Olympics and hand-picked our own Basils, Sybils and Manuels.

Am I smug about this? Is this the Olympics legacy - farcical situations and hapless staff? Yes, and probably. But why not? Qué? What!? Yes, I'm admitting it: I'm proud of this laugh-out-loud comedy. It's priceless! I think we should be incorporating this more into the games: a global School Sports Day with competing events and fun races. Beanbags balanced on heads, hula hooping and going under nets; an egg and spoon race or rolling pin relay; and guess the combined weight of the GB team. I admire athletic prowess, but for the rest of us it's a stretch imagining ourselves doing any of it. Attempting such sports after consuming the official Olympic sponsorship of chocolate, fries and burgers would come with a health warning anyway.

As you may have surmised, I'm not a fan of the Olympics, but then I take a while to warm-up to any mass flag-waving event. I don't like being told to do it. I'll do it in my own good time thank you, which usually means two years behind everyone else, but by then our views will be united: London 2012, the greatest improvised comedy the Brits have ever provided.

Beef

“Tea?” My friend asks as I decide which armchair to take a seat in. Where would baby bear sit? My mind diverts me from being polite and answering.

“Tea?” My friend again enquires.

“Hmmm, sorry. Yes, I'd love one” I reply, now sitting down and plumping the cushion behind me. This seat is just right I'm thinking.

“I'm trying out ancient brews.” A voice shouts from the kitchen. She enters the lounge carrying a silver tray and plonks it down on the table, “And of course serving them in the traditional way.” She continues.

She lifts the lid from the silver teapot and stirs it. “I must get this right: pour, season, and serve in a delicate cup.” She mutters.

Should I be commenting I wonder? I decide to remain silent and watch. A brown liquid streams into the cup. It looks like ordinary black tea to me. This must just be part of the ceremony. I let her finish it. She picks up a silver container and shakes it. Speckles of white appear on the top and fall to the bottom.

“I don't take sugar.” I remind her.

“It's not sugar, it's salt.” She states very matter-of-fact, calmly passing the cup to me.

I raise the cup to my nose and sniff it. “What is it?” I ask her.

“Beef tea.”

“But I'm a veggie!”I remonstrate to her.

“There's hardly any meat in it. I strained it. It will beef you up – just taste it.”She reasons.

“I think I'll pass, but you go ahead and enjoy it.”

She brings the cup to her lips, taking a sip and wrinkles up her nose, “Perhaps you need to be ill to drink this.”

What is the purpose of me repeating this exchange to you? Well, it got me thinking about our connections to food and how this relationship has altered. Not just our own, but on an international scale. Country to country. Globally. BBC2's documentary “The Men Who Made Us Fat” has fascinated me. I was most annoyed when tennis interrupted play, pounding my fists as the programme kept being pushed back. I actually mooed when they rescheduled it.

What's my beef? Frankly, I think sorting out our dysfunctional relationship to food is more important. Why is Britain so wishy-washy when it comes to this subject? Happier not to enforce, 'We don't want to upset food companies' is what the government is basically saying. Is this a plot to turn us into obese, ticking time bombs? Chair-ridden, slurping and eating. When will they accept we're at crisis point? That legislation in favour of public health is desperately needed? Back in the day, before BSE and supersizing, I used to be potty about beef, roasted with Yorkshire puds, or minced as a burger. Now I've sided with the beef: a mad cow potty about disagreeing. Vegetarian cows moo longer and louder.